This post is by bobthepen! It only says "Akumu" over there because he took over as GM partway through, and was given THREAD CONTROL.

“It is an acknowledged fact of a causal reality that every action initiates a consequence. For the majority of actions, the magnitude of the consequence is not far removed from the magnitude of the action. Small actions maintain small consequences. However, the consequences of similar actions may compound upon one another to produce a net consequence of larger magnitude. Thus, a multitude of small actions may maintain a larger consequence. By this principle, should actions of great magnitude compound upon one another, how much greater would their consequence be?”

- The Wordsmith, Erstwhile Origins, Date Unknown.

With a careful purposefulness, Barabbas Poe closed the cover of the leather-bound book and slipped it thoughtfully into a coat pocket. Like a map, it had led him to his destination. Now that he had arrived, it was time to put it away. He stood poised on a precipice of reality, a single outcropping of substance amidst a turbulent void. Had he arrived much sooner, he would have floated calmly through a sea of emptiness. The peace of nothingness would have engulfed him in perpetual stillness, leaving him with nothing but thoughts of his foolishness.

Instead, he had arrived on time, in a place where time should not be. Though there was no wind, no gravity, no suction, Barabbas still felt forces blasting against him, sometimes pulling, sometimes repelling. Where there was no light, something sparked and glowed - the center of this storm of nothingness. He watched it from a distance, aware of its significance, but fearful of its consequence.

He was a wrinkled man with a somber face. He was bald, save for two tufts of gray hair jutting out above either ear. His eyes reflected a reluctant determination. He wore a simple suit, a black vest with matching slacks, tie, and coat. He was not bound to the formal-wear, but he preferred it. Formality was second nature to him. Filled with unspoken rules and expected duties, etiquette was something Barabbas understood, even relished in when the time was right. Of course, this was not the time.

Time was another thing he understood, an adamant rule which could be bent in the right places. Barabbas was old, and he had been old for a long while. Unlike most humans, Barabbas had not grown old, but rather he had been sentenced to it. In the very center of the back of his head, a black mark rested, branded on his scalp. From this point, thick dark lines spread out along the contours of his body. The suit covered most of them. The markings were a symbol, a remnant of a memento he had received from something long forgotten. The tattoos kept him both aged and ageless, allowed him to survive for eons, waiting and fearing terrors long past. Yet now, through time’s forgetfulness, they threatened to resurface.

The Multiverse, that domain of the Grandmasters, had been folded upon itself, ripped apart, reformed, reconstructed too many times in too similar ways. The Grand Battles, as they were called, demanded the intermingling of persons and places that would never meet by natural order. The fabric of that stronghold of realities could only bear so much before it reacted. Were it a continent, it would have cracked and fallen into the sea. Were it an ocean, it would have churned and boiled away. Were it a star, it would have collapsed into a lightless point. The Multiverse, however, was far beyond all these things. It was a container and connector, a birthplace and a graveyard, a home to nothing and everything, and so, when pressed, it chose not to dissolve or dismantle, but to create.

Barabbas doubted the Grandmasters could have predicted this occurrence. They were too absorbed in their own “omnipotence” to fathom the unintended consequences of their actions. Even those few able to look beyond their petty power struggles could not have guessed the outcome. There was no precedent, at least, none known by them.

Barabbas himself would have been taken by surprise were it not for the book in his possession. He had recovered it while searching for a different text, one whose prophecy promised relief from a fear that plagued him. His book, however, was not prophetic. It was one of four, so its author claimed, that never ventured beyond the realm of history, though it was a history the author had not been privy to. It spoke of the creation of a force that was born from the carelessness of those with too much power. Its pages provided details and discussions surrounding a catastrophe it never named, yet Barabbas could not stifle the discomfort that the story summoned.

It had been too long ago, he supposed. The details of his past prior to finding the book blurred into an unwanted memory, a feeling of unease that grew into fear and terror when dwelt on for too long. He recalled fleeing, struggling, escaping. All that remained were negative emotions that Barabbas knew would challenge his sanity should he strive to uncover their source.

Those emotions were powerful motivators. Not that Barabbas was driven by fear, were that the case he would not have traveled here, but when circumstances triggered those feelings, or memory of a feeling, Barabbas could not help but seek a connection. When he learned of the Director’s Grand Battle, that uneasiness arose. When he learned The Observer was to repeat it, that feeling compounded. As the battles multiplied, Barabbas began to note the similarities between present events and the histories found within the book.

Perhaps, he had thought, he could do something to prevent this unintended disaster. He soon realized that was not to be his role. His abilities were not those that could interfere with the whims of the Grandmasters. Their actions, intentional or otherwise, were part of a inexorable ritual. This was something else Barabbas understood, the pattern and procedure of an invocation, the rules which guided the proper recipe for a summoning. With the pieces laid out, Barabbas could see their destination. He could tell who would preform which parts of the ceremony, where the critical events would occur, and what someone must do to complete it.

But he could not stop it. Barabbas was not a rule-breaker, nor was he a rule-creator. His nature was such that he could see and understand the critical rules governing this rite, but in doing so he must follow them. There were rules, however, that were not critical, rules that could be enforced or ignored if needed. Rules which would not change the ritual, but that could change the nature of its result. Thus he found the role set out for him, not that of a saboteur, but that of an arbiter.

He had considered taking on a title change at the realization, but the “The” had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

So he stood, watching The Multiverse in the moment of conception. The Grandmasters had planted the seeds of their power through their repeated ritual. Again and again bending the cosmos to their pleasure. What it would create, was yet unknown. There was one last ritual to perform. The rules dictated it. How that rite proceeded, Barabbas knew, would determine what that entity would become. Like its fathers, it would reach out into the vastness of The Multiverse and select eight sacrifices, eight combatants, and sentence them to die in worlds far-flung.

--------------------
In the center of the tempest, The Unborn shuddered.

--------------------

Welcome to the seventh Grand Battle in Season 3 (and the last one where you don't have to submit a villain)! Looks like our eclectic group of Grandmasters has gone and knocked up The Multiverse! DAAAAAAAAAANG. Well "like father like unformed anomalous entity", The Unborn is plucking 8 contestants out of the cosmos to watch them fight to the death, and you guys get to decide what sort of characters it dredges up from the plethora of worlds available to it.

Now if you're not familiar with what this is exactly - GREAT! - We're glad to have you! Take a seat, read a bit, fill out a character sheet and see what happens! Maybe check out someHistoricalSites to see just what you've stumbled upon!

Now, while you're doing that, allow me to give a summary of my own!

As I said, the Wretched Rite is a Grand Battle, a cohesive collaboration and contest between eight participants, one Grandmaster (this guy!), and whoever else manages to stick their head in there. To enter, each participant submits a character of their own design. Depending on the number of entrants there would be a brief selection process, and the Battle begins!

Each round of the battle consists of an intro post by me, and then lots of posts by the participants, each one adding to the characters, progressing the plot, and touting your writing skills. After a suitable number of posts and a suitable climactic plot point, I will solemnly select a participant whose writing, although grand, doesn't make the cut compared to the rest, and that writer will have the opportunity to type up one final post as their character dies and the remaining combatants go on to the next round.

Seven rounds, Eight contestants, One Winner.

(of course that winner then goes on to the "Season 3 All-star round" so fun! (for you not the character))

Now a couple of key points:

- When you want to make a post. Make a "RESERVE" post first (No stacking reserves). Now I completely understand that sometimes is takes a while to craft a decent post, and that life can often get in the way. A normal "RESERVE" lasts for 3 hours. If circumstances arise though, I may allow a "LONG RESERVE". A long reserve can last for several days, but I will require constant updates on what you have, what progress you've made, and when you think you can get things done. Keep in mind that if the game is going at a quick pace, I may deny a long reserve outright. (but maybe not!) Basically, if you think it's going to take more than 3 hours to submit your post - PM me and let me know.

- Be aware and accepting of what other players are writing. This means two things: avoid stepping on other author's toes by overtly derailing obvious laid out plans (unless I say it's okay), and don't complain when someone writes something that forces you to change the plans you have made (unless I say it wasn't okay). From my experience, plans and plots that change because of other people's writing are almost always better than the original plots.

- Along with the previous point, working together is completely allowed and encouraged. This is as much a collaboration as it is a contest. (and even moreso a challenge to improve your writing). However it is also as much of a contest as it is a collaboration, if you want to go lone rider into this (as most people do) go for it! Show off your stuff!

- This is a commitment. I hate to scare potential players away, but in a collaboration like this, dropping out is extremely problematic. If you don't think you can see this through to the end - don't join.

- Use - don't abuse! Other people's characters that is. Generally, try to wait for an author to use their character in 2 posts before overtly directing it. The first post is to allow the "BUHHHH? I'M IN A BATTLE AND I'M ANGRY/SCARED/EXCITED/ACTING DIFFERENT THAN MY NORMAL BECAUSE THIS IS CLEARLY NOT A NORMAL SITUATION FOR ME." to get out of the way. And the second post is to get a good idea of what kind of character he/she/it is. (This is a guideline, not a rule). Once you think you have a good feel for that character, role with it! Write for every character! Explore what they would do, and how they would react. If you're not sure, ask that character's author! Generally though, you should write for the character you submitted more than the other (This is a guideline, not a rule).

Oh and don't do anything permanently damaging to a character without that character's author's permission (This is rule, not a guideline).

- Posts under 200 words are too short! Any shorter than that and I'll start to dock you points in my judging-mind-jug. Conversely, if you write fantastic 200 word posts, you could easily see yourself reaching all-stars. (Okay they would have to be really good. Generally 500 - 1500 words is solid post length. Over 8000 is prooooobably too much but in the words of Pinary: "Having too many words in a Grand Battle is like having too much money. Sure, there are a few issues that can crop up here and there, but all in all, more is better.")

- Keep all non-story posts in spoilers. Spoilers can also contain story posts too though.

- If you have any questions/problems/concerns PM me. This is the most important point.

- Have fun! This is also the most important point.

I may add to this list as things come up. You will be notified.

Now that you are all sufficiently well read and clearly excited. Here is your character sheet. Fill this out and watch the magic happen!

Character Entry Form Wrote:Username: Whoooooo are you? Who-Who? Who-Who?

Name: The name of the character you're submitting.

Gender: Male or Female. If N/A, why?

Race: Your character's species. If it's human, toss in a qualifier like "swordsman" or "karmist". If it's not human, oooooh how exciting!

Color: Designate a color to distinguish your posts. Some people also use it to distinguish characters in dialogue. (I don't but I won't count it against you.) Colors that you can't read without highlighting aren't allowed. (Toss in a background if needed). I call dibs on "DarkSlateBlue".

Weapons/Abilities: How does your character fight? What traits or tools do they possess that help them hold their own?

Description: As Dragon Fogel put it: "Here we want a physical description of your character, as well as an outline of their personality. This is important in helping other characters figure out how to work with yours."

Biography: What is your character's backstory? What was their life/existence like? This can also be a chance to show off some of your writing. Seeing how I can only choose 8 entrants, an extra something can only help!

Question: Your character may be given a chance to speak with Barabbas prior to the first round. If this happens, what would they ask him?

Originally posted on MSPA by bobthepen.
Original OP, spoilered for posterity:

Spoiler :

“It is an acknowledged fact of a causal reality that every action initiates a consequence. For the majority of actions, the magnitude of the consequence is not far removed from the magnitude of the action. Small actions maintain small consequences. However, the consequences of similar actions may compound upon one another to produce a net consequence of larger magnitude. Thus, a multitude of small actions may maintain a larger consequence. By this principle, should actions of great magnitude compound upon one another, how much greater would their consequence be?”

- The Wordsmith, Erstwhile Origins, Date Unknown.

With a careful purposefulness, Barabbas Poe closed the cover of the leather-bound book and slipped it thoughtfully into a coat pocket. Like a map, it had led him to his destination. Now that he had arrived, it was time to put it away. He stood poised on a precipice of reality, a single outcropping of substance amidst a turbulent void. Had he arrived much sooner, he would have floated calmly through a sea of emptiness. The peace of nothingness would have engulfed him in perpetual stillness, leaving him with nothing but thoughts of his foolishness.

Instead, he had arrived on time, in a place where time should not be. Though there was no wind, no gravity, no suction, Barabbas still felt forces blasting against him, sometimes pulling, sometimes repelling. Where there was no light, something sparked and glowed - the center of this storm of nothingness. He watched it from a distance, aware of its significance, but fearful of its consequence.

He was a wrinkled man with a somber face. He was bald, save for two tufts of gray hair jutting out above either ear. His eyes reflected a reluctant determination. He wore a simple suit, a black vest with matching slacks, tie, and coat. He was not bound to the formal-wear, but he preferred it. Formality was second nature to him. Filled with unspoken rules and expected duties, etiquette was something Barabbas understood, even relished in when the time was right. Of course, this was not the time.

Time was another thing he understood, an adamant rule which could be bent in the right places. Barabbas was old, and he had been old for a long while. Unlike most humans, Barabbas had not grown old, but rather he had been sentenced to it. In the very center of the back of his head, a black mark rested, branded on his scalp. From this point, thick dark lines spread out along the contours of his body. The suit covered most of them. The markings were a symbol, a remnant of a memento he had received from something long forgotten. The tattoos kept him both aged and ageless, allowed him to survive for eons, waiting and fearing terrors long past. Yet now, through time’s forgetfulness, they threatened to resurface.

The Multiverse, that domain of the Grandmasters, had been folded upon itself, ripped apart, reformed, reconstructed too many times in too similar ways. The Grand Battles, as they were called, demanded the intermingling of persons and places that would never meet by natural order. The fabric of that stronghold of realities could only bear so much before it reacted. Were it a continent, it would have cracked and fallen into the sea. Were it an ocean, it would have churned and boiled away. Were it a star, it would have collapsed into a lightless point. The Multiverse, however, was far beyond all these things. It was a container and connector, a birthplace and a graveyard, a home to nothing and everything, and so, when pressed, it chose not to dissolve or dismantle, but to create.

Barabbas doubted the Grandmasters could have predicted this occurrence. They were too absorbed in their own “omnipotence” to fathom the unintended consequences of their actions. Even those few able to look beyond their petty power struggles could not have guessed the outcome. There was no precedent, at least, none known by them.

Barabbas himself would have been taken by surprise were it not for the book in his possession. He had recovered it while searching for a different text, one whose prophecy promised relief from a fear that plagued him. His book, however, was not prophetic. It was one of four, so its author claimed, that never ventured beyond the realm of history, though it was a history the author had not been privy to. It spoke of the creation of a force that was born from the carelessness of those with too much power. Its pages provided details and discussions surrounding a catastrophe it never named, yet Barabbas could not stifle the discomfort that the story summoned.

It had been too long ago, he supposed. The details of his past prior to finding the book blurred into an unwanted memory, a feeling of unease that grew into fear and terror when dwelt on for too long. He recalled fleeing, struggling, escaping. All that remained were negative emotions that Barabbas knew would challenge his sanity should he strive to uncover their source.

Those emotions were powerful motivators. Not that Barabbas was driven by fear, were that the case he would not have traveled here, but when circumstances triggered those feelings, or memory of a feeling, Barabbas could not help but seek a connection. When he learned of the Director’s Grand Battle, that uneasiness arose. When he learned The Observer was to repeat it, that feeling compounded. As the battles multiplied, Barabbas began to note the similarities between present events and the histories found within the book.

Perhaps, he had thought, he could do something to prevent this unintended disaster. He soon realized that was not to be his role. His abilities were not those that could interfere with the whims of the Grandmasters. Their actions, intentional or otherwise, were part of a inexorable ritual. This was something else Barabbas understood, the pattern and procedure of an invocation, the rules which guided the proper recipe for a summoning. With the pieces laid out, Barabbas could see their destination. He could tell who would preform which parts of the ceremony, where the critical events would occur, and what someone must do to complete it.

But he could not stop it. Barabbas was not a rule-breaker, nor was he a rule-creator. His nature was such that he could see and understand the critical rules governing this rite, but in doing so he must follow them. There were rules, however, that were not critical, rules that could be enforced or ignored if needed. Rules which would not change the ritual, but that could change the nature of its result. Thus he found the role set out for him, not that of a saboteur, but that of an arbiter.

He had considered taking on a title change at the realization, but the “The” had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

So he stood, watching The Multiverse in the moment of conception. The Grandmasters had planted the seeds of their power through their repeated ritual. Again and again bending the cosmos to their pleasure. What it would create, was yet unknown. There was one last ritual to perform. The rules dictated it. How that rite proceeded, Barabbas knew, would determine what that entity would become. Like its fathers, it would reach out into the vastness of The Multiverse and select eight sacrifices, eight combatants, and sentence them to die in worlds far-flung.

--------------------
In the center of the tempest, The Unborn shuddered.

--------------------

Welcome to the seventh Grand Battle in Season 3 (and the last one where you don't have to submit a villain)! Looks like our eclectic group of Grandmasters has gone and knocked up The Multiverse! DAAAAAAAAAANG. Well "like father like unformed anomalous entity", The Unborn is plucking 8 contestants out of the cosmos to watch them fight to the death, and you guys get to decide what sort of characters it dredges up from the plethora of worlds available to it.

Now if you're not familiar with what this is exactly - GREAT! - We're glad to have you! Take a seat, read a bit, fill out a character sheet and see what happens! Maybe check out someHistoricalSites to see just what you've stumbled upon!

Now, while you're doing that, allow me to give a summary of my own!

As I said, the Wretched Rite is a Grand Battle, a cohesive collaboration and contest between eight participants, one Grandmaster (this guy!), and whoever else manages to stick their head in there. To enter, each participant submits a character of their own design. Depending on the number of entrants there would be a brief selection process, and the Battle begins!

Each round of the battle consists of an intro post by me, and then lots of posts by the participants, each one adding to the characters, progressing the plot, and touting your writing skills. After a suitable number of posts and a suitable climactic plot point, I will solemnly select a participant whose writing, although grand, doesn't make the cut compared to the rest, and that writer will have the opportunity to type up one final post as their character dies and the remaining combatants go on to the next round.

Seven rounds, Eight contestants, One Winner.

(of course that winner then goes on to the "Season 3 All-star round" so fun! (for you not the character))

Now a couple of key points:

- When you want to make a post. Make a "RESERVE" post first (No stacking reserves). Now I completely understand that sometimes is takes a while to craft a decent post, and that life can often get in the way. A normal "RESERVE" lasts for 3 hours. If circumstances arise though, I may allow a "LONG RESERVE". A long reserve can last for several days, but I will require constant updates on what you have, what progress you've made, and when you think you can get things done. Keep in mind that if the game is going at a quick pace, I may deny a long reserve outright. (but maybe not!) Basically, if you think it's going to take more than 3 hours to submit your post - PM me and let me know.

- Be aware and accepting of what other players are writing. This means two things: avoid stepping on other author's toes by overtly derailing obvious laid out plans (unless I say it's okay), and don't complain when someone writes something that forces you to change the plans you have made (unless I say it wasn't okay). From my experience, plans and plots that change because of other people's writing are almost always better than the original plots.

- Along with the previous point, working together is completely allowed and encouraged. This is as much a collaboration as it is a contest. (and even moreso a challenge to improve your writing). However it is also as much of a contest as it is a collaboration, if you want to go lone rider into this (as most people do) go for it! Show off your stuff!

- This is a commitment. I hate to scare potential players away, but in a collaboration like this, dropping out is extremely problematic. If you don't think you can see this through to the end - don't join.

- Use - don't abuse! Other people's characters that is. Generally, try to wait for an author to use their character in 2 posts before overtly directing it. The first post is to allow the "BUHHHH? I'M IN A BATTLE AND I'M ANGRY/SCARED/EXCITED/ACTING DIFFERENT THAN MY NORMAL BECAUSE THIS IS CLEARLY NOT A NORMAL SITUATION FOR ME." to get out of the way. And the second post is to get a good idea of what kind of character he/she/it is. (This is a guideline, not a rule). Once you think you have a good feel for that character, role with it! Write for every character! Explore what they would do, and how they would react. If you're not sure, ask that character's author! Generally though, you should write for the character you submitted more than the other (This is a guideline, not a rule).

Oh and don't do anything permanently damaging to a character without that character's author's permission (This is rule, not a guideline).

- Posts under 200 words are too short! Any shorter than that and I'll start to dock you points in my judging-mind-jug. Conversely, if you write fantastic 200 word posts, you could easily see yourself reaching all-stars. (Okay they would have to be really good. Generally 500 - 1500 words is solid post length. Over 8000 is prooooobably too much but in the words of Pinary: "Having too many words in a Grand Battle is like having too much money. Sure, there are a few issues that can crop up here and there, but all in all, more is better.")

- Keep all non-story posts in spoilers. Spoilers can also contain story posts too though.

- If you have any questions/problems/concerns PM me. This is the most important point.

- Have fun! This is also the most important point.

I may add to this list as things come up. You will be notified.

Now that you are all sufficiently well read and clearly excited. Here is your character sheet. Fill this out and watch the magic happen!

Character Entry Form Wrote:Username: Whoooooo are you? Who-Who? Who-Who?

Name: The name of the character you're submitting.

Gender: Male or Female. If N/A, why?

Race: Your character's species. If it's human, toss in a qualifier like "swordsman" or "karmist". If it's not human, oooooh how exciting!

Color: Designate a color to distinguish your posts. Some people also use it to distinguish characters in dialogue. (I don't but I won't count it against you.) Colors that you can't read without highlighting aren't allowed. (Toss in a background if needed). I call dibs on "DarkSlateBlue".

Weapons/Abilities: How does your character fight? What traits or tools do they possess that help them hold their own?

Description: As Dragon Fogel put it: "Here we want a physical description of your character, as well as an outline of their personality. This is important in helping other characters figure out how to work with yours."

Biography: What is your character's backstory? What was their life/existence like? This can also be a chance to show off some of your writing. Seeing how I can only choose 8 entrants, an extra something can only help!

Question: Your character may be given a chance to speak with Barabbas prior to the first round. If this happens, what would they ask him?

Originally posted on MSPA by bobthepen.
MalkyTop has got the jump on all of you with a fantastic example of a character profile which she PM'ed to me (PM's are the best M's):

Malky Top Wrote:Username: MalkyTop

Name: Tinder Zebulon Pleasant (He has been trying to dump that name for a long time.)

Gender: Mah-mah-mah-male

Color: This is the color of time.

Race: Human, though he once dreamt he was a chicken if that counts for something.

Weapons/Abilities:

Spoiler :

Tinder certainly doesn’t have many items on him besides the clothes he’s wearing, the diary he keeps, and the small, old-timey radio that he always leaves on. The radio is pretty musty and has four small dials that spins four number wheels. The first number wheel never seems to end while the second goes up to ’23’ and the third and fourth goes up to ‘59’. It is physically impossible for the radio to contain all of them, large as they must be, but it does. The radio has the ability to send just one message to itself anywhen in time, or at least from when it first turned on. Tinder has never used up this message.

Description:

Spoiler :

Tinder is pretty scrawny and can be often seen yawning, perhaps because he does not get much sleep. His eyes (dull green-blue) are pretty sunken and may often close just to rest a little, most often when he’s just listening to someone talk. He never actually falls asleep, though. He still may come off as rude, especially because he seems to enjoy it when people snap at him and ask if he’s listening and he smugly replies ‘yes.’ He seems to make it his job to know everybody who lives nearby and then pairs them up with someone else in his head. Other than that, Tinder doesn’t get too involved with others. He keeps an obsessively detailed diary and has developed a pretty good internal clock so that he can accurately guess how much time has passed since he, say, started waiting at a bus stop. Another thing he keeps careful check on is his sanity. For both time and sanity he has gotten into the habit of stopping every hour or so and checking up on them; for time, he writes down everything of note and maybe things not of note and what time it took place, while for sanity, he often just checks in on himself. “Am I insane? …No, I don’t think so.” It’s not a very elaborate test, but he trusts it well enough, going on the assumption that an insane person wouldn’t check on his sanity. He’s been taught to be passive-aggressive and even can counter-passive-aggressive, which is something like aggressively being passive-aggressive at a passive-aggressor. He would rather keep calm and friendly (and thus always seem like the ‘good guy’) and often does this by randomly counting little things. He might count the number of round things in the room or he might go so far as to try to count the number of strands of hair on your head. He doesn’t like people calling him by his name but has yet to figure out a good enough nickname to go by. ‘Tinder’ being the least worst part, he goes by that for now.

It is hard to see Tinder’s face because he wears both a face mask and a maroon hood. The maroon signifies his low class and the thin stripes that are stitched around the shoulders of the hood signifies his job (black – unemployed), intelligence (brown – deemed low), mental fitness (tan with white streak – questionable), and address (it’s just the address stitched on, not a stripe signifying his specific apartment, that would just be complicated, though it is stitched in a puce-looking color to signify his sector). He wears rather loose-fitting clothes and doesn’t have much exposed skin, though it can be hard to tell because everything’s covered in soot, so much so that he can only be described as ‘black.’ Only if he removes his face mask could his skin tone be determined (it’s like hot chocolate with specks of black soot because that damn thing gets everywhere). If he removes his hood, any part of his hair that’s not covered with soot would look slightly brownish but that would only be because, when comparing soot to black hair, soot always looks blackest and the hair always looks brown even if the brown can’t actually be seen. He shuffles about in a way that would make him take up the least room but also in a way that could allow him to firmly push aside anybody that might get in his way.

Biography:

Spoiler :

Timber shoved his way through the crowd of similarly-hooded people on his way to work. He considered himself one of the lucky few to be able to get a job in the higher-class district. Once he got past a certain point, the walk wouldn’t be as crowded. Upper-classes never left their homes and even if they did, they would make sure to go out of their way not to touch him. It would just be a lonely walk between the towering apartment buildings. He could raise his arms slightly, trail his fingers against the walls, and not have them collide with someone. Not many of his types got to experience such space.

Timber hustled through the gates into a small hub and rushed to his locker, already ten minutes late because of the crowd. As he fumbled into his soot-free suit, he ended up tripping over something large and clunky. He stifled a curse and muttered darkly at it for a while before actually bothering to figure out what it was.

It was an old-fashioned two-way radio with three dials that didn’t seem to do much. They were all set on ‘0’. The other half of the pair was nowhere to be found. Feeling it his duty to try to help return it to its owner (besides one half of a two-way radio wasn’t useful at all), he picked it up, turned it on, and called out hesitantly, “Hello?”

As he fumbled into his soot-free suit, he ended up tripping over something large and clunky. Before he could almost-curse at it, it crackled on and a voice that sounded worryingly like his said, “Hello?”

Timber waited for a moment before slowly picking it up and fiddling with the dials. The third dial seemed to move on its own if he left it alone and reset back to the number it was on if he turned it and left it alone for too long. He watched as it clicked to ‘59’, then back to ‘0’. The second dial clicked to ‘1’. He was vaguely aware that now he must be eleven minutes late. He wondered why the voice who sounded like him hadn’t said anything else yet. He fiddled with the dials some more until he set everything to ‘0’ except the last, which he set to ‘5’. He spoke into the radio.

As he fumbled into his soot-free suit, he ended up tripping over something large and clunky. Before he could almost-curse at it, it crackled on and a voice that sounded worryingly like his said, “Hello?”

Timber waited for a moment and the radio crackled again and the same-sounding voice said, “This is a test. I’m different from that last guy, unless you never heard a last guy, so never mind that. If this is what I think it is, you wait for a second message from me, or you or however this works, the same guy, in about a minute, and if you don’t hear anything, then that means this radio only sends one message and I’ve used up mine. Oh yeah, I’m not sure I remember what conclusions I came to at your point in time so in case you haven’t exactly guessed yet, I think this sends messages to myself. Or whoever’s holding onto this radio. Through time. And stuff. Alright, maybe talk to you in a minute, when you’re me? Maybe? I dunno.”

He watched the second dial tick to ‘1’ and waited a little longer but then realized that it was unlikely, with the dials right there in front of him, for him to be late with the message. He picked up the radio and thought about something for a moment before turning a few dials, pressing the side button and speaking into it.

As he fumbled into his soot-free suit, he ended up tripping over something large and clunky. Before he could almost-curse at it, it crackled on and a voice that sounded worryingly like his said, “Hello?”

Timber waited for a moment and the radio crackled again and the same-sounding voice said, “This is a test. I’m different from that last guy, unless you never heard a last guy, so never mind that. If this is what I think it is, you wait for a second message from me, or you or however this works, the same guy, in about a minute, and if you don’t hear anything, then that means this radio only sends one message and I’ve used up mine. Oh yeah, I’m not sure I remember what conclusions I came to at your point in time so in case you haven’t exactly guessed yet, I think this sends messages to myself. Or whoever’s holding onto this radio. Through time. And stuff. Alright, maybe talk to you in a minute, when you’re me? Maybe? I dunno.”

Timber waited for a moment before picking up the radio and getting ready to wait until it crackled again and the same voice said, “Hi, this is a different one, I just got that last message you just listened to, and, uh, saving you some time, he doesn’t make a second one. So it’s one message only, and thinking about it, you probably shouldn’t reply either, that’d be using up your message and then the thing’d be stupidly useless. You better go, you’re already late for work.”

Timber continued shoving himself into his second suit, grabbed his all-important bag and clipped the radio to his belt before heading out into the upper-class sector. The radio crackled on again. “There was some sort of freak accident on our usual route, you’ll have to go another way. It was between the place with the flowers and the place that always has that upside-down lamp.” As he carefully inched his way between high-class apartments, his new radio clicked on every few seconds to send him some sort of important message. He couldn’t help but think he would need some headphones. “You’ll need some sort of notepad too,” the radio said.

Timber would never say that he had become dependent upon his radio, but it was very important. He used it to win lotteries, but then got guilty and stopped after two. He used it to dodge embarrassment and social tragedy. Sometimes it made him uncomfortable to really trust the messages that came out, especially when it once said, weakly and desperately, “Get out of that job, don’t care how, just get unemployed really quickly.” Unemployment was a big thing for himself to ask for and Timber didn’t really want to follow through. He had a great job that he probably would never get again and the whole paperwork and waiting for a new hood to get embroidered was annoying and – “Listen to him, he was serious, it’s bad,” the radio said. Timber never really found out why he had to get out of his job, but he found himself not to curious about finding out. Instead, he lived off his lottery money as well as doing paid odd-jobs on the side for anybody nearby.

Most of his life wasn’t very notable besides two messages. One was very worrying. “KICK IT KICK IT KICK IT stop shouting at me oooooh who are you, really, future-boy, is this all a trap? KICK IT RIGHT NOW no, no no no, I’m stuck in the waaaaallls can you hear me scratching at them? I’m scratching very hard, very, really--“

From then on, realizing he actually had the potential to turn insane, Timber watched himself very carefully, every so often motivated by another rambling message.

The second message went like, “Two days from now, fourteen-thirteen-thirty-two, you’ll be entered into a battle to the death. You’ll kind of disappear from home, so you should probably take care of some business. The food’ll spoil, so you should give it away, and make sure Lasso gets a good home and you better at least kiss Permelia before you go or I’ll be forced to be very angry at you from where I am. Also, change our name because I think the other guys are laughing at us. Change it to something cool.”

Before he could even think this was another insanity message, the radio piped up again. “That last message was no lie. Don’t bother changing your name, they didn’t accept my reason as legitimate. It was a little embarrassing. Also, when you go kiss Permelia, brace your cheek. She hits hard.”

Timber spend the two days preparing, giving out his food and money, tearfully parting with Lasso, telling his five roommates to go ahead and advertise a free space if they wanted, kissing Permelia, dodging her immediate punch, resignedly not changing his name, stuff like that. He also looked for a weapon but found out the easy way that he would get caught and arrested, then did it anyways because it wouldn’t matter in about three minutes. While he was having fun resisting the authority’s attempts to capture him, he disappeared, right on schedule.

Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.Username: MrGuyName: Nempelio Poran kala-SunGender: MaleRace: LeskrinFont colour:#00C957Weapons/Abilities: Carries a harp, a quill pen, and a bow, both scaled down to his size, as well as twelve crudely-fashioned arrows, an inkwell, and six sheets of paper.

Through music and poetry, he is able to bring forth flashy illusions. These serve no purpose but to confuse, distract, or entertain.

Description: Resembles a common mouse, but with a short, pointed tail and cyan dragonfly-style wings. About 13 centimeters tall, with gray fur and yellow eyes. Wears a black feather behind his ear, and a purple sash with three pouches attached.

Cheerful and friendly. Tends to exaggerate his own experience, and get in over his head; in particular, while he's somewhat skilled with a bow, he's by no means the expert he often makes himself out to be. Greatly enjoys gardening and stargazing. Often gets lost in thought.

Biography:

Spoiler :

Rozan, the fifth planet orbiting a binary star known as Rastus, was inhabited-- at least in part-- by the Leskrin, creatures resembling insect-winged mice or rats. Their civilization, at the time, was highly clan-based: the hierarchy of each geographical region was clearly outlined, with different families holding different amounts of power wherever they were. There was little resentment, but this was likely because no major philosophical movement had occurred in the past century or so; each individual, even if they were unhappy with their station, either resigned to it and did their duty or moved somewhere where they would hold more power.

Poran kala-Sun was born to Lance Skelrit eben-Sun and Redun Nalri toro-Garz of the western plains, the sixth of eight children. From a young age, he showed an affinity for music and wildlife; during the Vocational Ceremony on his tenth birthday, he made the decision to become a bard, adopting the career name of Nempelio.

The training process took five years, but could not be said to be particularly strenuous, although Poran did not slack off. On his fifteenth birthday, his apprenticeship complete, he began traveling from town to town, exchanging ballads and performing music. He was rarely well-off; though he was skilled enough, particularly in the illusions all trained bards used when telling tales for children, he rarely had any actual salary, making do merely with tips and the occasional performance for a festival. What's more, he spent much of his time writing unconventional work, trying to comfort himself with the idea that it would be appreciated in fifty years, that it would herald the coming of a new artistic movement. He rarely truly believed it, but kept at his work, convinced that it was better to write what he wanted than solely what others wanted. And, for the most part, he truly was happy.

Poran found himself caught up in a small town the evening it was attacked by a Tropari, a ferocious black bird so large as to crush an entire family with one foot; they were said to be able to fly across the entire ocean, and to have beaks strong enough to crack diamonds. He had claimed to have helped the great hero Lorin ili-Paros take down three at once, and unfortunately for him, those who listened to his story believed it. Though nervous, he did his best to fight valiantly, and managed to inflict a couple of wounds without being harmed; but soon, he was cornered. Unwilling to die a hero's death, he cast the largest illusion spell he could muster, and prepared to flee, praying that the townspeople would be able to fend off the weakened predator.

He was never heard from again, but was kept on in lore-- inspired by his apparent hero's death, the townspeople fought off the Tropari, never realizing the true cowardice behind his actions.

Question:"Have you seen time itself, sir? And if you have, what does it look like?"

The Tsote are a humanoid race that differ from humans in a key way; their affinity with fate. They know that fate is not just an idea but an actual palpable force which pushes them towards their inevitable destiny. They can perceive fate in the same way that humans can perceive odours. Those people who fate has earmarked for greatness have it hung thickly around them. It can be sickly sweet for a particularly pleasant fate or bitter for an unpleasant one. As a consequence of this perception Tsote conflicts have been very one sided affairs. While both sides know that the conflict must happen only the one who is assured victory will really be enthusiastic about pursuing it.

Though some attempt to fight fate and secure their own destiny they are only fooling themselves; for the Tsote fate is absolute. For those who have a good fate their lives are easy, society gifting them all that they are fated to get. For those who have a bad fate their lives can be awful, a constant struggle to survive, spurned by a society that does not care for them.

Their skin is pale lavender and their eyes are typically a metallic colour. Their feet consist of a flat circle with balancing digits splayed around it. Their hands are similar enough that they can be used as extra legs when running, allowing a Tsote to run at a more sustained pace. Their hands have five digits altogether, two of which are opposable; these are located on either side of the hand. They are of a single gender, and their method of reproduction means that more or less any physical contact beyond a handshake can kick-start a pregnancy. As such they are distant and detached from one another, only making skin-to-skin contact in private.

Abilities: Vera has been aware for a long time that her fate involves a certain amount of combat and has prepared accordingly. She is competent at hand to hand fighting, but more so at the use of a whip. She is also an excellent marksman. She has with her an old fashioned pistol and a razorwhip; a whip with razor sharp edges.Description: Vera has long auburn hair and gold eyes. She wears a practical brown leather jacket. She carries her pistol in a holster on her belt. Her razorwhip is carefully sheathed in a container attached to the other side of her belt. She wears a pair of well worn jeans and heavy leather boots. She is approximately eighteen and it shows in her youthful complexion.
Vera is pretty much the popular girl from high school. She is confident in both her abilities and her looks; she is capable of being casually cruel, perhaps without even realizing that she is being so. Despite her confidence she is not arrogant, her fate does not dictate that she will win every battle, just that she won’t die; she knows this. She is very forward for a Tsote (which is just one step beyond frigid in human terms), this essentially means that she doesn’t mind touching people and she doesn’t wear gloves.

Biography: The fate that can be read from Vera is one of acceptance, happiness, popularity, training, confrontation and victory over a fated enemy. Though this may sound vague this is about as precise as a fate reading could be. It was easy to be happy with a fate that guaranteed victory and so she was. Her positive fate made her popular at school, and she lived an almost charmed life; excelling in her lessons and her weapons training. She planned that when she left college she would see about travelling, finding her fated enemy and having the confrontation that her life was building towards. Then one day she was snatched away from her fate, into a grand battle.

Question: She would not ask a question. She would be relatively certain that this Battle was what her fate was about and would be satisfied to compete in it.

Spoiler :

Though it is not a sentient force fate does not like to be fucked around with. It did not appreciate the abduction of one half of a fated pair before the two had even met. It quickly compensated for one half of the fated pair’s disappearance by sending the other half of the fated pair after her.

Name: Alice MasonGender: FemaleFont colour:Blue on Lavender (#0000ff on #dda0dd)Species: TsoteAbilities: NoneDescription: Alice has short dark blue hair (a natural colour for a Tsote) and bronze coloured eyes. She wears old ragged hand-me downs; a white shirt, a thick black coat, black leather gloves, a pair of old grey pants and beaten up black shoes. Her hair is unkempt, one of her eyes is blackened, her lip bloody and her clothing conceals a selection of bruises. She is only nineteen, though from her world weariness she looks a lot older.
Alice is miserable; she is gloomy and pessimistic, but very determined. She is likely to be angry and confused by this turn of events, especially since she was not even provided with an explanation. Like Vera she is pretty sure that she can’t be killed, at least until she finds her fated enemy. In Alice this trait is more likely to display itself in desperate and unwise courses of action, based on the notion that she can’t die.

Biography: The fate that can be read from Alice is one of rejection, misery, pain and eventual defeat at the hands of a fated enemy. It was not easy to life a happy life with such an ominous fate, and as much as her mothers, priests of destiny at the local church, attempted to convince her to accept her fate no matter how grim, she tried to resist it; to force herself to live a good life despite what fate dictated. She was unpopular at school, having such a negative fate. She was miserable and eventually she ran away, believing that if she got far enough from her home she could get far away from her fate as well. It did not help. One day her fated enemy was taken away into a grand battle, and afterwards she was dropped unceremoniously into wherever the first round was taking place.

Question: I'm sure there would be a whole host but I don't imagine she would get the opportunity to ask them.

Spoiler :

If you choose this character I’d specifically ask you not to include any mention of Alice in the introduction; she would be pulled into the battle say a couple of minutes after it had already started. This would probably be how she moves from round to round as well.

They are fated enemies; Vera cannot die until she has killed Alice and Alice cannot be killed by anyone other than Vera. At least that’s what fate says… but that might not necessarily mean anything here.

Originally posted on MSPA by engineclock.
Posting this for TimeothyHour due to an inconvenient absence. This isn't a trick or anything. Really.

_______________

Spoiler :

YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED MIND CONTROL MAY BEGIN:

Username: TimeothyHour

Name: Pax Musica

Gender: None, gender of hosts may vary.

Race: Parasitic Sentient Techno Hivemind

Colour: Blue

Weapons/Abilities: Propagation of the collective is achieved via the members of Pax Musica’s entourage. Fully integrated members wear rather standard-looking headphones which have been modified with robotic cables, wireless receivers, and wires that insert at the base of the brain, along with an iPod (pfft copyright) playing hallucinogenic musical pieces. This design gives Pax Musica full control of its hosts while the former beings are reduced to a state of music-induced euphoria. If the headphones are removed, or music is not played through the headphones for over a minute and a half, a failsafe is activated that automatically kills the host. This basic building block of Pax Musica’s control allows for the first step in propagation: Introduction. The host, when encountering a non-converted being, will appear like a normal member of the host's species and attempt converse with the prey. When it appears contextually appropriate, the host will then unplug its iPod and play a 30-60 second sample of its music in order to briefly stun the target with its psychedelic beats. The second phase then begins: detention. The host attempts to grab its prey, binding it or otherwise incapacitating it, and brings it back to the main body of Pax Musica…

Description: …which essentially appears as a fairly standard nightclub. The interior has psychoactive music playing constantly, effectively incapacitating any prey inside. After a short period of time, the target is introduced to the central consciousness of Pax Musica, which inhabits a jukebox in a back room of the club. This room is soundproof and has no music playing. Within the room, the prey is allowed to regain consciousness and sanity before the third step is begun: Conversion. The target directly meets Pax, and from there, no one is really sure what happens. Regardless, a new being is added to the hivemind consciousness, and the cycle repeats. The central consciousnesses communicates to the rest of the collective via wireless signals. At the time of disappearance, Pax Musica had about twenty hosts within the club, who were taken with Pax Musica. Approximately 350 more hosts were outside of the club, searching for prey, and were not taken with it, severing the connection and killing them instantly.

Biography:
Some people say music has soul. And on a version of earth, battered by combat, a withered husk of what it once was, the last effort for peace tried to make that true.

Description: 5'7", caucasian, 17 years old, black hair (long, tied back), dark brown eyes. Thinly muscular, almost gaunt at a glance. Has large, permanent black eye on left, due to when her powers fully awakened. Currently wearing a thick brown jacket and jeans over her full-body suit.

Rather short-spoken and belligerent, she would rather solve a problem with her fists than put up with more than a minute's worth of discussion and dithering. Cold, somewhat irritated demeanor (much of it for show). Impulsive if provoked, but used to making sacrifices to survive, especially of herself. Fighting puts her in a decent mood, and flying much moreso. Hides her enjoyment outside fights, unless attempting intimidation (a favorite tactic). Has a reputation for causing collateral damage.

Additionally, she is under a sensible superhero code for a combination of legal and PR reasons, which prohibits things such as killing, ignoring civilians in danger, and swearing. (She has a tenuous relationship with that last one.)

Weapons: Super-lightweight elastic suit (full-body, neck down), used for protection when lightweight without interfering with buoyancy, and durability when fighting at high-density. Has lightweight metal alloy plating knuckles and feet, to assist/withstand her attacks. Also contains built-in team communicator (now obviously useless) and a few small packs of sealant for repairing cuts caused by bullets/knives/blades. Colored dark-blue with wide indigo stripe down center, to fit ability colors + camouflage in night sky. Round eagle emblem (team symbol) over the heart, in the same color scheme. Clothes typically worn over suit when not fighting.

Powers: Density manipulation (self)

Can manipulate her body's density at will without changing her shape, effectively increasing or decreasing her weight and durability.

Stone/steel-hard states make her much more durable than an equivalent amount of stone/steel in practice, due to skin/bone elasticity, etc. Max-density, while slow, allots the largest amount of strength on her part; despite lacking the ability to provide much inertia in this state, she could (for instance) more easily bend or twist a metal beam from rest than otherwise. (Think slow but nigh-unstoppable motion.)

Low-density, while making her extremely vulnerable, allows her to float and rise in air. This is not controlled flight; direction is often dependent on wind, initial pushoff, and chosen density. Supporting objects of any real heft mid-air is out of the question.

Typical uses include:
- Jumping off the ground to ascend quickly at low-density, then descending at max-density onto a target, slamming down with legs for heavy impact.
- Fist-fighting at high-density.
- Walking through gunfire at/near max-density. (Doesn't prevent some suit damage, eyes must be shielded w/ hand.)

Increasing density is her body's instinctive response to damage. Receiving a heavy blow while "light" would cause her to quickly go heavier before the damage spread, making the hit grievous and debilitating rather than fatal. This is a temporary, involuntary response; she must be conscious to keep maintaining a state of abnormal density.

Skin and eye-whites take on light indigo colors when lighter than normal, and dark blue colors when denser. Voice depth/resonance also changes (min) somewhat (norm) between (high)states (max), when her ability is active.

Biography: Grew up orphaned in an urban area, troublemaker. Would often get in fights. At 14, started participating in underground boxing, and subconsciously used her undeveloped ability to help her. Received hard blow to her left eye in the fight where her powers awakened, saved her; resulting black eye has persisted, and is unhealable. Scouted by local team of teenage superheroes shortly after awakening, given hero nickname "Freefall" (goes by this exclusively). Was still acclimating to new team/lifestyle (and it to her), but greatly enjoys it; has become convinced that her life operates like a comic book, and has so far been proven right.

Ace, The Gadgeteer, Magenta, M.E.T.A.L., and Freefall make up The Eagles. From their Eagles' Nest overlooking Olive City, they have proven themselves one of the more successful (read: not bankrupt) city-based hero groups around.

Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris.Username: Solaris of the Seven Suns

Name: Ariela Azul AdainasGender: FemaleRace: Robot (She is completley unaware of this, I would prefer that it is kept this way for as long as possible)Color: #0096CC, a skyish sort of blue

Biography: Daniel Soluim Adianas was an intelligent and whimsical man. A successful inventor of the highest caliber, he was known all across the world for his inventions and worldly escapades, the one above all other being his special all purpose adhesive. Some said he had the perfect life, and he was inclined to agree. Unfortunately, when you are a world renowned figure, you can also be a widely known target. Various people, victims of the adhesive’s misuse, would occasionally crop up and try to make him pay, but this rare event never resulted in an injury. Until Ronald Trear, a public figure with a memetic standing for his slightly ridiculous toupee (held still by Adianas’ adhesive), faced public embarrassment when he was unable to remove it (as the adhesive can only be removed under certain conditions). Blaming the mockery on the creator of the glue, he decided he would hit Daniel right where it would hurt most. He would hurt his family.
It was a lovely day, one of the best recorded in years. Of course this would be the day that Daniel would run late to meet his visiting son, his loving daughter in law, and their beautiful child. What none of them knew was that the train that they had ridden on wouldn't arrive in one piece. Due to some horrible tampering, the train and its passengers met an unfortunate end. All of the passengers perished or perished shortly after, that is, except for one little girl.
Either awake and suffering from burns or asleep and thoughtless, Ariela Azul Adianas was in a living hell. Her grandfather and single living relative was stuck with a choice. Lose it all, or let her suffer. He took a third option. Calling in all of his favors and joining with experts of all kinds, he and an all star team of scientists previously unheard of and thought impossible, did just that. The impossible. They had revived the young girl and placed her into a new body, one very similar, only instead of being made of flesh and bone; it was made out of metal.
And so the young girl and her grandfather returned to his home, safe and sound. They spent their days playing and learning and speaking, the two Adianas' couldn't be happier. However, there were some bumps in the road. Taking precautions against something revealing her robotic nature, Daniel stopped Ariela from going to school, they never went in public airlines, and he removed all of the weight scales from the house. Not wanting anything to disturb their bliss, he told her that she had been diagnosed with hemophilia, and that she should avoid sharp objects whenever possible. The only exception to this is the green fork that was given to her by the supposed Prince of Palasia. Daniel covered all of his bases, disguising lessons on how to repair her as the instructions to creating complicated inventions.
But as an old man, Daniel didn't have many years left. Eventually Ariela would wonder why she didn't grow, why she wasn’t allowed near certain objects, or why she wasn’t allowed to know her own weight. He would have to tell her, before it was too late. It would have been the right thing to do, she needed to know. But... things don't always go as they are planned.
Just as he was going to share the secret of what he had done those many months ago, Ariela was lost to his world.

Description: Ariela is a young girl dressed in a nice blue and white stripped dress that ends right on her knees. Her black hair is held by a teal headband and her eyes are her favorite color, which judging from her clothes should be guessed as blue. By the way, that is also the color of her shoes and stockings, cerulean and bright respectively. A naive and inquisitive girl, she is unafraid and unaware of the many dangers that lie out in the world and is extremely trusting of others. She was taught by her grandfather not to tell lies or say mean things about other people and she will stick to it. She also has an inviting smile. She is very careful around sharp objects and she is more inclined to flee at the sign of danger.

Abilities: She is knowledgeable and athletic, as she was taught by her grandfather to be the best she can be! She is a good swimmer and runner, although she has never competed competitively. She is good at asking questions and enjoys listening to responses. She was taught many things by her grandfather and as a result knows a little about just about everything, language, history, and physics being particularly easy subjects for her. Another particular point of interest is her grandfather’s inventions, many of which were constructed in a MacGyverish fashion. However, she only has a vague idea of how he does things. She also enjoys singing and drawing, but she is not very good at them... [As a robot, she has inhuman durability, stamina, and memory, although the latter two are suppressed by her belief that she is human, beyond that there is no technology that meant to be used as a weapon, although the all star team may have added a few inactive experimental oddities.

Weapons: The young lady wields a white umbrella made of an extremely durable metal and cloth and a green colored fork both with compositions unknown to her and she holds a bottle of her grandfathers famous special adhesive.

Originally posted on MSPA by Pinary.Username: PinaryName: Olivia ReindanaGender: FemaleRace: Human (plus a substantial amount of what was later dubbed Hedera reindanis)Text Colour: #008000

Biography:

Spoiler :

Until January 14, 2010, the records of Dr. Francisco Orellana's 2008 expedition into the deep Amazon were stored in the records department of the UC San Diego Division of Biological Sciences.

On the security footage for that day, a student approached the desk. He conversed briefly with the attendant, signed in under the name Ken Parusi, and was led into the archives. He emerged approximately 20 minutes later bearing a set of folders. Nearly two hours after that, another student entered. Unable to locate the attendant, he entered the archive. Soon after, he called the police. The body was found covered in a multitude of paper-cuts, and the coroner recorded the cause of death as blood loss. The first student, one Ramon Tiete, had been reported missing several days prior. His body was found the next day under a bridge, torn open, all major bones removed.

The records themselves had only been viewed a handful of times before and were largely ignored- the information contained within was attributed to heat stroke, and the deaths, to the wilderness.

The story they told formed a somewhat spotty account of the expedition. The four participants, Dr. Francisco Orellana, Dr. Trisha Jerdust, Dr. Peter Casine, and Dr. Olivia Reindana, set out as planned. On Day 15, however, they were forced to make camp.

"We will be stopping for a day or two to allow Dr. Reindana a chance to recover. She took a tumble down a bank and received several wounds to her shoulders and back. Her injuries appear to be mostly superficial, and she insists that we continue the expedition. We will judge her health in the morning and make a decision then."
-Dr. Orellana's log, Day 15

They got moving the next day, and for several days, the expedition continued as normal. On Day 18, however, Dr. Reindana began to complain of irritation and stabbing pains in her back, and they made camp once more.

"In her tumble, Olivia apparently got a seed of some sort lodged deep in one of the cuts! There's a tiny shoot sticking out of her back! Francisco thinks she should take it out immediately (and I tend to agree), but it's aroused her scientific curiosity. She wants to keep it there and let it grow! She's just going to just take some pain medication and record its progress! (Honestly, can any real scientist say they would do differently?)"
-Dr. Jerdust's log, Day 18

"It's been five days since my fall, and the plant has grown substantially. It resembles plants of the genus Hedera, and the others, as a joke, have started calling me Ivy. The pain has not subsided, but we are running low on painkillers. Francisco wants to turn around, but I don't want to ruin his expedition- he's been planning it for years, and he probably won't get another chance at it."
-Dr. Reindana's log, Day 20

Over the next week, the plant continued to grow, spreading to cover much of her back and moving up onto her shoulders. By Day 30, it had begun to creep up her neck, and others in the group began to express serious concerns about her safety.

"I should never have let her continue with this experiment. That plant should have been removed the instant we discovered it. I only hope Dr. Reindana's life isn't in danger."
-Dr. Orellana's log, Day 30

"The vines are starting to mix into her hair now. Francisco, Peter, and I all want to turn back, but she's just so stubborn. She cares for Francisco so much, but I don't think she understands how much it hurts him to see her like this."
-Dr. Jerdust's log, Day 32

"As the plant has grown onto my head, I've started to get headaches. It's not surprising, really, but there's no way I can tell the others- it would only make them want to turn around even more, and I will not be responsible for this expedition's failure."
-Dr. Reindana's log, Day 33

As they neared the 40th day of travel, the records began to become more and more inconsistent.

"I activated the emergency beacon. The plane should arrive in the next few days to pick us up. I shouldn't have let this go on as long as it has- I have serious concerns about Dr. Reindana's health. Five times in the last two days, she's asked us to repeat what we had just said. None of us were talking."
-Dr. Orellana's log, Day 38

"They keep talking about me behind my back. They think I don't hear them, but I do. I think they're going to try and force me to turn around. I won't, I won't. I am not going to let Francisco throw his work away because of a little plant."
-Dr. Reindana's log, Day 38

"Olivia heard the plane coming before any of us. We didn't even know what she was talking about until it flew by; she just started shouting at Francisco, calling him 'ungrateful' and cursing. She's not herself- if Peter and I hadn't restrained her, I swear she would've tried to kill him. God, I hope she's going to be alright."
-Dr. Jerdust's log, Day 40

"The pilot is going to meet us at a river a few miles east of here. The terrain is rough, but our options are limited. I'm considering restraining Dr. Reindana- I suspect the plant is adversely affecting her mental health."
-Dr. Orellana's log, Day 40

There are no further entries from Dr. Orellana. The other logs become significantly less coherent after this point.

"Francisco's gone. He wanted to hurt me, I couldn't stop him, I had to stop him I couldn't I did No No No

Please, Francisco, leave me alone"
-Dr. Reindana's log, Day 41

"Olivia and Francisco were missing when I woke up this morning. She stumbled back to camp a little later, shaking all over. No sign of Francisco. Peter is considering tying Olivia up and just carrying her the rest of the way."
-Dr. Jerdust's log, Day 41

"Francisco is here. They say he isn't, but he is. I tried to explain, but he wouldn't listen, they never listen, they won't believe me.

I think I'm losing"
-Dr. Reindana's log, Day 41

Two days later, the rescue plane made an emergency landing several miles from its home airport. One of the side windows had been shattered, and Dr. Reindana was alone inside. She was transported from the airport to the local hospital, and experts were flown in from elsewhere. The doctors' initial reports indicated that the plant's roots were too deep for easy removal. They intended to try at least trimming it back, but no records exist of the results of that attempt- the doctors were found dead in the room, and Dr. Reindana was nowhere to be found.

In mid-2009, another expedition was sent to investigate what had happened. They discovered two bodies near the plane's landing coordinates, each accompanied by supplies and logs identifying them as Dr. Orellana and Dr. Jerdust. Dr. Casine's body and that of the plane's pilot were never located.

Several months after the failed expedition, an unknown source began mailing clippings from various South American newspapers to the department, each accompanied by a clumsily-scrawled note instructing the recipient to include it in the file for Dr. Orellana's 2008 expedition. Each clipping described a sighting of one sort or another- most referring to a cloaked figure entering town at night, stealing a few supplies, then vanishing. One report described a young shop clerk's experiences.

"She came in in this big hooded cloak, right, and at first I was like, okay, whatever. But then she started to just leave with some stuff, and so I asked if she was going to pay. She didn't respond or nothing, just went to leave, so I grabbed for her shoulder. I got a handful of cloak, and it came off. Get this- the whole back of her body was covered in some sort of plant, and she was wearing the kind of thing you see those explorers wearing, only it was all torn and stuff. As soon as it came off, she just bolted.

"But man, you should've seen her eyes. She glared over her shoulder at me on the way out, and, like, they weren't even people's eyes. She looked... like, it looked like she was just an animal or something. But an animal that covers herself in a cloak? I don't know, man. Pretty weird, if you ask me."
-Clipping dated November 22nd, 2009

Items/Abilities: Olivia's idea of what she has with her may or may not line up with reality at any given moment. Sometimes she'll think she's got a smattering of stored food, Dr. Casine's old notebook, a few pens she attaches an odd significance to and stole from her various ventures into what little civilization she could find, and a small knife. Those are the times she's closest to reality- other times, she'll think she's got anything from an armful of seeds to half a million dollars in small, unmarked bills.

As for abilities, well, that's rather on the vague end. The plant on her back grants her certain abilities, but Olivia's not rightly sure of their full extent. She's not keen to find out, either- as she makes use of them, the plant's influence over her seems to grow and her own self seems to shrink away. In some of her more lucid moments, however, she's remarked on how what's happened has mostly seemed to fall into one of two categories- enhanced human capabilities and plant symbiosis. The former is fairly self-explanatory- speed, strength, senses, all heightened by the plant. She's only made use of this in short bursts (and that's been exclusively instinctual, for survival or escaping). The latter is more subtle but also more disconcerting- things like finding sunlight rejuvenating or just wanting to soak in some mud for a while. Those desires are often hard to distinguish from her own, but despite being unsettling, the facts show that they do help both her and the plant in the long run.

Description: Physically, Olivia looks about how you'd expect a plant-infested explorer to look after living in the Amazon for two years. She's about 5'8" if she stands up straight, rather thin and undernourished, and not exactly keeping up with her old grooming routine. Her hair would probably be blonde if she washed it, but it's now, understandably, best described as "dirty blonde." She was wearing a standard explorer's outfit at the start of the expedition- a light-brown canvas shirt, matching pants, and more pockets than you could shake a stick at. Over the years, it's gained its fair share of tears and tattered edges, and the ivy growing out of the back of it hasn't exactly helped much. By the time of her abduction to the battle, she'd evidently obtained another cloak for herself- a dark-brown number made of rough, heavy canvas that most people would find too itchy to even lean against, let alone clothe themselves in. She's worked it into a hooded cloak shape with some crude cutting and stitches. She's far from an expert seamstress, but it's decently sturdy and covers her up well enough.

Mentally, Olivia's not exactly what one would call "stable." She has her more- and less-lucid periods, sometimes dipping into and out of humanity jarringly fast, and if she were some thirty years older, she'd probably be able to qualify for the title of "crazy swamp hag." She's been known to sometimes think that Dr. Orellana was there with her or that she's still trying to finish the expedition.

Diplomacy is likely to be hit-and-miss with her, as she's both under the influence of a semi-sentient and probably-malevolent plant and not always guaranteed to see you as the same person she was talking to a minute ago.

Question: She would likely blink at him, clear her throat, try (and fail) to speak, clear her throat again, then croak, "Why me?"

Abilities/Weapons: Detective Blaise is, much like the cliché, equipped with keen intellect and a legit license to shoot the fucker when he so damn pleases. He has enough cunning wit to monologue hours on end, and the charismatic, gruff narrating voice to tell his tales. He's usually equipped with stern wit, a small pistol (he still claims anyone with a big gun compensates for something) and a lighter for the vast assortment of tobacco he carries around. He's actually been trying to quit smoking and monologuing at the same time, but he who chases two birds catches none.

Detective Blaise is also entirely fictional, and pulled from a 1950s movie.

This, as you would guess, would have the same strange consequences as, for example, entering a chalk drawing. Renard has a little less trouble, the camera was well enough equipped to shoot him at three dimensions, so he will not be stuck plastered to a wall, but still the brown-and-gray doesn't translate well into the real world. Whatever happens in his vicinity automatically grows to be a grim, gritty copy of its original. Robots become irreasonable henchmen, medieval rogues turn into sleazy cutpurses. Scientific laser gunswords, stylish bayonets. Everything in his witnessable surroundings gets transformed into film noir, without having to damage the concept of reality a lot. Usually only the more superhumanely aware have and memory of the event. Memories get adapted to fit whatever the outside world is or was used to upon entry or exit.

Description: Renard is one of those people capable of dissolving in a crowd while still being a recognisable face. Though his job requires something at least referent to formal wear, his look seems to be so neglected that even his hair could pass as sandblasted. Ratty, shaggy, “they only see my hat anyway”, those brown threads of hair leap from under his fedora like a herd of bunnies that don't give a fuck. He's considered thin, almost lanky, but doesn't show as such. His meager figure hides in vests and trenchcoats on a daily basis. Personailty-wise, Renard is a pursuer, and never lets go, be it an ideal, a thug, a dream, a promise, a case, whatever. His persistence is probably what makes him a good cop, but at the same time what cost him his official license years ago. Handling under the title of Private Investigator Blaise, and mostly using street cred and viva voce to get cases.

Backstory: There's just some bloody fuckers that never can get enough. And on most days, I wish they weren't my problem.

The name's Blaise, and I'm the guy that has to clean up all the crap that happens in this god-ridden town. 'S not like I have to. Technically, I'm not even allowed to half the time. Whenever a case is that far gone even the feds won't lift a finger to risk their monthly bribes, or when if it ever passed the feds my... commissioner himself would be locked up.

I don't wanna bother with life stories. If you really want to know more about me, I'll tell you 'bout my latest case...

Originally posted on MSPA by ch00_bakka.
I'd like a chance to get into a battle...

Username: Ch00_bakka

Name: Fiorella Gucci

Gender: Female

Race: Anthropomorphic Personification of human high fashion

Color: Lavender is in this month, darling. (FF88FF)

Weapons/Abilities: Fiorella has powers over clothing, especially high fashion. She can change her clothes at will, and with a little time she can change others' clothes as well. She is able to form (extremely fashionable) weapons, but only if they are made out of her clothing, i.e. gloves with spikes or literal stiletto heels. She can cause clothing that is not being worn to move of its own accord, but only if it's "in" this season. The state of "in-ness" is defined as "costing more than is strictly sane". Because if it didn't cost a lot, then everyone could wear it! And that would be simply dreadful.

Description: Fiorella is a tall, thin woman who appears to be about twenty-five years old. Her hair changes color and style quite often, but her eyes are always lavender. She always wears just the right makeup for her clothing and hair, and this makeup never smudges or wears off. When she was pulled from her home in the Fashion District (a separate plane of existence that unites all fashion centers (you know, Milan, Paris, X!thbkri'ik, Space Paris...)), she was wearing a simple blue dress. That will probably change.

Mentally, Fiorella has an obsession with looking good. Her goal in life is to be the most fashionable entity in the multiverse, a position currently held by the Martian Goddess of Style, N'khur'dnazi. This obsession drives her to inspire humans to make new and better designs, and to "borrow" ideas from other humanoid races. Shamelessly. It also gives her some OCD, especially relating to her clothing. She would stop a fight in the middle to get a spot of dirt off her shoes. Even if it meant she would be injured. She is kind of a bitch, and will backstab her allies if it will help her goals.

When she speaks, she tends to be a large ham. She calls most people "darling" or "honey", in a very condescending tone. She tries to keep a slight European accent (of unspecified origin - some romance language), because she thinks it sounds better, but her natural accent is Californian. In private or under stress she reverts back to her normal mode of speaking, and tends to go on long tirades about others who she sees as competitors.

Biography: Well, darling, if you really want to know... I was a mortal at one point - just like you, honey -, a fashion designer. I was born in Paris, and I simply loved it there... I went off to college in Milan, and studied fashion. As you could probably guess. I became a world-renowned designer! You have almost certainly seen my designs on the runway. All under others' names, though. My classmates - they were jealous. They stole all of their good ideas from moi. But something must have noticed my plight, as I became the goddess of fashion just after! It was a miracle! And then, everyone know what happened next, of course.

Actual biography: Fiorella was born Francine Clarkson to a middle-class family from Los Angeles. At age 17, she was hired as a model by an influential fashion company, and moved to Europe. The goddess of fashion thing was an accident - she had "accidentally" shoved her heel into the foot of the girl who was supposed to become the goddess, and wore her dress on to the runway. The force that chose her was looking at the dress and not the face, so she became who she is today.

Originally posted on MSPA by Aryogaton.
I'm gonna put two profiles in here, so you can choose whichever of the two you like better, if either.

Name: The BlankGender: Technically genderless, but since most assume he’s male, he adopts it for simplicity’s sake. Species: Diplomatic construct/artificial humanColor:#888888 on #FFFFFF

Weapons/Abilities: Blank’s defining ability is to passively absorb knowledge from any viable source around him, including living beings. This means that, after a few minutes, Blank will learn extensively about the backstories, abilities, etc. of nearby characters, data-storage devices, etc. This extends to simple objects and machinery, where Blank can learn its properties or inner workings. Blank cannot stop using this power, and if he spends too long with a certain character, then that character’s personality may begin to influence him.

The knowledge-absorbing power extends weakly to abilities, such that after a while, Blank would gain some of the abilities of the people around him. However, this only extends to non-character-specific abilities (strength, marksmanship, ritual magic, etc.); abilities that Blank would not be capable of after potentially intense training (innate magic, godlike abilities, item-specific abilities, etc.) Robots and other artificial beings are treated as objects, and Blank can’t learn anything other than knowledge from them.

Description: On the outside, Blank looks like a lanky, pale, and bald human, of ambiguous age, gender, and descent. He wears a simple white shirt and pants, which effectively makes him practically entirely monochrome. On his personality, Blank is very much pacifistic, overwhelmingly preferring to discuss and solve a conflict rather than end it with physical force—not that he has much of it, except in rather specific circumstances. He is designed to get along with any single character he meets, which is usually made possible because of his knowledge-absorbing power. In order to do this effectively, Blank alters his personality to match that of the character he wants to be friendly with.

Blank refuses to use or share most of the knowledge he absorbs, mostly to respect the characters’ privacy and to avoid generating conflicts. He will make exceptions when his or other people’s lives are in danger, or if the situation demands it. He often shares his own backstory as compensation for absorbing someone else’s.

Biography: In a human’s imagination, advanced aliens exist as warlike imperialists, entities we cannot comprehend, or otherwise beings that are rightfully entitled to their superiority, a fact that they must know and that we must fear.

The reality is quite far from such fantasies. The alien society that has visited Earth is, indeed, quite advanced and has surpassed the societal and technological limitations that humans struggle with. However, rather than the clearly superior mindset we imagine they have, it is they who fear us.

They have been watching for much of modern history, and have been eager to make peaceful arrangements for the betterment of both civilizations. However, the warlike and self-destructive tendencies of the human being have seeded paranoia.

If they do not hesitate to destroy themselves, what will make them hesitate to destroy us? We must be prudent! We must show them that we are not the imperialists depicted in their legends. Cooperation is vital!

Thus, they waited. They waited for a time when human civilization had made peace with itself. However, such a time never came. It began to seem clear that active intervention was necessary, yet the fear that the humans would declare war on such a strange and unfamiliar civilization held steadfast.

So they created an ambassador. It was designed to dissolve any violent tendencies of humans it met, and to sow the beginnings of a true interspecies friendship. But most of all, it was designed to be human, to be familiar and true to human culture, accomplishing what the aliens fear they cannot.

The first phase was, of course, developing a familiarity with human culture. The ambassador lived and traveled anonymously, until it deemed it knew enough to begin diplomacy. Getting the attention of every sovereign leader was rather simple, and the lack of any cultural or linguistic limitation made communication smooth.

But there was one flaw. In attempting to be as human as possible, the ambassador had developed something of an uncanny omniscience. It was a subtle aspect that wasn’t quite right, a basic instinct of humans that saw unnatural a certain aspect that all humans are supposed to lack: perfection.

Weapons/Abilities: The main forms of defense the M. mancinella uses are its apples, teeth, and claws. The juices of its apples are highly acidic, though it is rather protective of its fruits. The only highly-supernatural ability the nature spirit is capable of is moving its apples (and only its apples) by telekinesis, which is slightly weaker than the panther body in speed and strength, but greater in precision.

The plant’s panther body is heavily-adapted for hunting to mimic the body morphology of an actual panther, and is thus rather agile and strong. It has no eyesight and a very weak sense of touch, but its sense of smell, sound, and thermal radiation is very acute.

M. mancinella can shapeshift, but greatly prefers to keep its panther body, and any moving structure other than the adapted panther body tends to be too slow for combat. It has had little use of fine motor control, but tendrils are suitable for such a purpose. M. mancinella can recognize plant structures easily and mimic even the most bizarre ones to a limited extent: a natural reflex to being threatened is to raise spines all over its body.

M. mancinella is carnivorous and photosynthesizes. When eating, it prefers to plop on the fresh carcass and extend some roots, getting as much out of the meal as possible. It can “eat” with the panther mouth, but does so only to carry some meat along to be more time-efficient.

Description: On the outside, M. mancinella looks like an apple tree the size and in the shape of a panther. The part of the tree in the shape of a panther is woody, but the bark is rather smooth and has no knots, while the part that can be identified as the head has no eyes.

The branches, leaves, and fruit of the tree are perched in a dense bush on the panther’s back. These branches are rather thick, having adapted to withstand regular motion.

The mind of M. mancinella is that of a young nature spirit. Its intelligence rivals that of a human, but its thought processes are very different. Although it is a very quick learner, it values pragmatic knowledge, tending to utterly disregard anything that is of no benefit or harm; its sense of curiosity is weak; and it tends to concern itself only with things that exist, such as food, rather than human concepts such as morality. It does not know any language and has no particular method or use of making complex sounds. After many unsuccessful attempts at hunting humans, it has learned to stay away from them.

M. mancinella is very protective over its apples, and even more protective of its flowers. It blooms relatively often, but such blooms are always futile: although the flowers have the look and smell, and nectar taste of apple blossoms, pollinators are almost invariably killed by the acidic fumes. Whatever pollen that does manage to be deposited on a different flower (or vice-versa) end up becoming useless, due to the breeding and self-incompatibility of the M. mancinella. Instead, the flowers develop into apples without pollination, and thus are seedless.

It wears a plant pot label over its left ear, showing only a picture of a blossom and “Malus mancinella.” It is unaware of this fact.

Biography: Machina Labs was known for—as the neighboring towns quipped—doing some of the most random research in modern science. Despite this, many knew of the benefits produced by those modest facilities: fully organic napalm, virtual guinea pigs, and placebo-free massage pills, for example. The Labs were respected, and any fear of something going out of hand was repeatedly made ludicrous by a particularly bizarre and ambitious project that was carried to huge success.

In a random trip dubbed the Curiosity Endeavor®, a scientist found an apple tree in midst of a rather lush forest, save for a circular patch about twenty feet across around the tree that harbored not even grass. Stunned by this allelopathic wonder, the scientist immediately took tests of the soil and a scion. Back at the Labs, the scientist’s team found that the soil had a far lower pH than even the most acidic of forest environments, and began to grow the graft in a controlled pot.

The tree soon lowered the pH of the soil dramatically, killed its host rootstock, extending out its own roots instead. Its tissues were discovered to contain a potent organic acid that, inexplicably, prevented pollinators from doing their job. Instead, the scientists found use of the organic acid, which was the most acidic organic acid thus discovered, and its molecular structure conveniently filled most modern applications of a wide variety of organic acids.

So they bred it. For acid. And science. Within a few generations, the Machina Labs team had developed a plant that, on the surface, looks like a humble apple tree, yet produces the most commercially valuable organic acid thus known to humankind.

The tree would not grow too big, but large production was rather unnecessary: the lack of supply and the Labs’ refusal to distribute clones of the plant meant that they could set the price of the Omniganic Acid® wherever they wished. Business flourished.

-----

They say that nature spirits manifest themselves at the most naturally harmonious and are naturally attracted to the most naturally atrocious. Then again, men of science don’t concern themselves with the supernatural. Fittingly, such a nature spirit—a young one, rather confused—found itself in midst of the Labs, its purpose obvious yet oblivious. For the first while, it floated around invisibly between walls and above ceilings, looking for something familiar to latch on to. With enough wandering, the spirit found the new species known as Malus mancinella.

When a nature spirit binds to its first plant, it experiences the sudden lapse into lucidity, which initiates its desire and purpose to shoo out pesky humans and other natural disruptors. Some often informally declare themselves protectors of the species of plant it bound to, thus putting a special emotional emphasis and connection to that species. In this case, however, the inexperience of the new spirit, coupled with the artificialness of Malus mancinella, simply turned it feral. In the perspective of the scientist that was juicing an apple at the time, the plant suddenly uprooted itself and started throwing apples everywhere, thereby dissolving most of the room before floundering into the hallway.

Alarms blared and scientists were rushed to safety. Luckily, the only injury sustained was the lone scientist in the apple room, of which a few sprays from some hydroxides and some plastic surgery fixed swiftly.

Cameras followed the nature spirit as it shambled into a random room. It was the panther room, where a live brain from an unfortunate yet oblivious panther participated in a constant virtual hunt. The nature spirit crashed into the brain in the center of the room, instantly killing the panther.

As the plant’s acids began to dissolve the brain, the nature spirit suddenly found an unfamiliar and unusual sense of hunger. It wrapped around the brain, simultaneously eating and learning, finally stopping when only a volatile puddle remained.

The nature spirit learned much. The hunt, the strategy involved, it was all quite interesting and immensely practical. Manifesting a woody body was simple enough. All that was left was to hunt.

And then it disappeared.

Question:M. mancinella is too self-absorbed to ask anything of significance.

Originally posted on MSPA by Jacquerel.
I was worried I wouldn't be able to write a lot for this
I have now decided that might not turn out to be such a problem after all [img]images/smilies/mspa_face.gif[/img]

Username: Jacquerel

Name: AlluvionGender: Probably non applicable but identifies as MaleRace: The anthropomorphic personification of a small freshwater riverColor:The BBCode calls this "Royal Blue". I'm colourblind so I am taking its word for it.

Biography:
Humans create many Gods and Legends, they are very good at it. Almost every culture has at some point seen something they cannot explain, given it a name and then prayed to it for assistance and for some beings human prayers can be powerful indeed. Drawn by the lure of belief, ethereal creatures from other planes feed themselves on the psychic emanations and in doing so gain the form and (eventually) powers that are attributed to them. A well-fed God can call storms, smite unbelievers or just protect lonely shepherds on hills, its personality shaped by how people think it is supposed to act.
Of course in this day of science and skepticism there's a lot fewer prayers to go around and many of the big old gods are dying off, but not all gods feed off humans. While a spirit will do very well for itself with a handful of human followers, people are fickle and these spirits tend to be very short lived. Every unanswered prayer creates doubt and deprived of the extremely potent belief of humans that it has become accustomed to the metaphysical creature will quickly find itself without sustenance.
While humans undoubtedly create the most variety and most poweful spirits, hundreds of years of the wordless desires of fish will eventually form itself themselves a god too.

Alluvion is the anthropomorphic personification of a freshwater river somewhere deep in an isolated valley on Earth. Forming very slowly over millions of years from a mind little better than a fish itself to a conciousness at about the level of a human being from the steady flow of tiny desires from the fish, plants and crabs living in his ecosystem, he spends most of his days watching over these tiny animals and gaining sustenance by answering their prayers, creating a sudden sourceless splash to distract a hunting bird and allow its prey to escape or shifting a rock to hide a batch of freshly laid eggs from prying eyes in mating season as well as protecting it from invaders such as a group of beavers trying to assemble a dam upstream and cut off the flow of water.

The inhabitants of the tiny river are unlikely to mourn or even notice his disappearance, while fish are smarter than they might appear they are unlikely to note a sudden downturn of their collective luck. Alluvion on the other hand will miss them dearly as his only friends and the only other living creatures he has ever known.
If they are not reunited within the space of a couple of years he will gradually lose his physical form and starve to death.

Description:

Spoiler :

Are pictures acceptable within profiles? Obviously not as a substitute for the description but alongside it? Here's one anyway.

Alluvion manifests as a column of flowing water expanding upwards from a sourceless puddle and bent into a vaguely serpentine S shape. He has one glowing yellow eye on either side of his head and no obvious mouth. A single row of spines move along his spine, emerging from the puddle at his base and flowing upwards until they hit where the back of his skull would be if he had one, where they sink back into the liquid and re-emerge where they started.
His arms are long and, when at rest, are usually dragged along the ground at his sides by their knuckles. Each hand has only three fingers joined by webbing which makes them all but useless for grasping or manipulating objects.
He usually stands at about the height of a grown man but this very vague measurement is all that is possible because his size fluctuates wildly depending on the time of day and temperature, appearing smaller during the day and when it is warmer and larger during night time and periods of coldness. In exceptionally hot climates he can shrink to about four foot, while in much colder areas he can rise to a maximum of nine.
Water constantly drips off him onto the floor, but vanishes into thin air mere seconds after detaching from his main body.

As he is the embodiment of a river that is situated in a valley far removed from any form of human habitation he is largely unaware of any aspects of human culture or civilisation, apart from a vague knowledge of their existence gleaned from other connected water sources, in fact he knows very little about anything that doesn't concern the flora and fauna that inhabit the ecosystem he embodies, though he is very inquisitive and (not usually having much else to do at home) will thoroughly investigate any new object or being that he encounters.
His personality is very much like that of a young child, generally benevolent and fond of plants and animals but with a tendency to cause large amounts of damage to his surroundings through simple ignorance and an undeveloped sense of right and wrong. He expresses a strong distaste for any violence that does not serve an obvious purpose and also dislikes seeing still water contained in any kind of object (though pipes are apparently ok as he regards them as like subterranean rivers) as well as open flames and salt.

Weapons/Abilities:
Alluvion is (sort of obviously) made of water which lends him a whole range of advantages and disadvantages. His fluid form makes it hard for physical weaponry to make much of a dent in him unless it is backed by extreme enough force to seperate large quantities of water from his body, orphaned droplets simply vanishing into thin air as soon as they hit the ground. He naturally regenerates water over time from the puddle at his base but this is too slow a process to quickly heal any losses above his natural evaporation and constant dripping. Very high temperatures can hurt him in the same way by either speeding up the evaporation process and slowly shrinking him to nothing or simply turning large parts of him directly into steam.
His resistance to physical blows also makes it much more difficult for him to manipulate objects. Things that he picks up generally fall through his clumsy fingers and then are actually held inside his palm by means of a kind of liquid suction. This understandably damages or melts electronics, food or other items that dislike being filled with liquid very quickly and means he takes a substantially longer time than most people to perform simple tasks such as operating door handles.
While he grows in cold temperatures, extreme cold does make him much more sluggish though he is incapable of freezing completely.
Alluvion can naturally sense the feelings and intentions of nearby wildlife and though the effect is greatly diminished on sentient beings he can generally gauge their current dominant emotion if he concentrates. He can also speak to and recieve responses from any other body of water, though whether they will be cooperative is another matter.

Originally posted on MSPA by engineclock.Username: engineclock
Name: Adelaide Margaret Sheats
Gender: Female
Race:Rusalka, bit like a siren/mermaid/kelpie hybrid; sometimes dead. Supernatural drowned female, if you will. Used to be human. Bit touchy about it.
Color:#77978A

Weapons/Abilities: Adelaide constantly and involuntarily drips murky green water from her hair and skin, the exact origin of which is unclear. The water forms pools around her that act more or less like normal bodies of water except for the fact that they have apparently infinite depth and connect to one another at intervals that disregard actual distance; it would take the same amount of time, for example, to travel between pools ten feet apart as it would for a thousand feet. This depends on her knowing her relative location, so it’s unreliable at distances over than a mile or so. She can utilize water she hasn’t personally created at the cost of turning it all green and nasty-looking. The water created or corrupted by the rusalka is her preferred territory, no little in part due to the fact that anyone unfamiliar with it quickly becomes disorientated once submerged due its space-warping nature, rendering escape difficult if not outright impossible. Objects thrown into it will likewise become lost; coins tossed in will not grant wishes.

Underwater, Adelaide possesses freakish zombie strength and speed and can breathe as easily as she would in air. Her preferred method of catching prey is luring unsuspecting targets near her pools and pulling them under to drown, the purpose of which she is not entirely sure. Eating her victims seems to quell her confusion, so she does that sometimes. She possesses an inhumanly beautiful singing voice- not quite a siren song, but very distracting and likely to attract any curious passersby.

On land, however, Adelaide is drastically weakened, and if she dries out completely she’ll die in minutes. The water generation would seem to prevent this, as well as give her a permanent haven and escape route; naturally this relies on the water existing in the first place, and the rusalka avoids dry areas like the plague. A plague that could hurt a dead person.

Description: Very pretty in a deceased kind of way, with a slender figure bordering on bony and suspicious dark eyes. Adelaide has permanently dripping ankle-length greenish hair that closely resembles river reeds, and the very little clothing she wears is actually bits of plant matter. Small trophies taken from her various victims frequently adorn her, most of which currently consist of a number of shiny baubles of varying value and hideousness. Her fingernails are long and sharp, and her teeth are evil pointy little things that bring to mind some kind of predatory fish, as does her rather fluid way of suddenly lunging for your face. Despite being sometimes mistaken for a mermaid, she has normalish legs and doesn’t have any trouble walking or running when on land. She constantly appears soaked when out of the water due to her ability and she will not feel bad when she ruins your nice carpet with her gross hairwater.

Adelaide’s personality shifted when she became a rusalka, though not enough to disguise her dregs-of-the-gutter background. She’s got a bad temper and a worse sense of humor and isn’t above backstabbing, lying, and other rude behavior if it means she’ll get her way. Class and formality don’t mean much of anything to her except as a waste of time and a way to exploit other people. She can be charming when she wants to, however, which is almost always when she wants to eat somebody. Secretly she’s actually rather lonely, since being an undead water spirit doesn’t leave many opportunities for social activities. Apparently she quite misses being human, but may not be sure if she’s ready to give up the ability to chuck a glass of water on the ground and swan-dive into a puddle.

Biography:

Spoiler :

The girl by the water was beautiful in the way that a fallen leaf was, black with rot and slick with rain. She sat with her back to Adelaide on the riverbank, combing her long, long hair with a little white comb and singing quietly to herself a song that seemed eerily familiar. The skin on her back glistened softly as she turned, tugging the comb through a knot; she was naked except for the tangled strands of hair and a few black weeds plastered across her. What Adelaide could see of her body was pale and almost translucent in the dim light, like something that had surfaced from deep under the ground, away from the sun and any source of light.

A stick shattered suddenly under her foot; the stranger froze at the sound, her hair bitten halfway through with the white teeth of the comb. Her head turned slowly, fluidly, and Adelaide was looking into the eyes of an animal, dark and distrusting. The angles of her face glowed in the light shining off the river and brought into painful contrast the shadows under her eyes and on her lips. She smiled, suddenly; her teeth were small and sharp and white. The comb glistened quietly in her hand.

The startled Adelaide managed to get out a “You’re not supposed t-” before the strange girl slid pushed off the bank and slid slowly into the river, turning away. The water rose to swallow her but wouldn’t take her hair, bearing it up in dark swirls over the gentle current and pushing it back towards the land. She turned back and gave a comb’s smile through the tangles. It took a few seconds for Adelaide to realize that she was speaking.

“Help me.”

It was stupid to listen, Adelaide thought as she stumbled over the fallen branches in the darkness, heading for the river. She pushed a sapling out of the way, letting it crash back into place. It was a terrible idea to do what strange women skinny-dipping in the river at midnight said. A bow cracked in half like a gun going off. She was making a horrible decision. The water rose up around her ankles and her toes sank into the cold mud at the river’s edge, and she watched as a rotten leaf floated silently past her feet.

The river girl came closer, her smile framed by bruised-looking blue lips. Wasn’t that familiar?, Adelaide thought. Hadn't she seen that before? The strange girl’s voice was even more beautiful than her body, rising out of the cloudy water like a pale, terrible fish with arms and shoulders and long-nailed hands held out like a beggar’s. She was lonely, the voice was saying. The girl shrugged and strands of hair fell away from her. So lonely. Lonely like the river at night, running all the time and never getting where it wanted to go. The water was cold, but the girl’s hands were colder, holding her face in an iron vice. Wouldn’t she be lonely with her? Wouldn’t she do that? She was so lonely. She’d always been lonely.

Adelaide was lonely too, she realized as the rusalka held her gently in her arms and laid her down under the water. The river running into her lungs didn’t want to go there and didn’t know where it wanted to go at all, babbling to itself through her throat. It wasn’t talking to her, no one was. No one wanted to move away from the silence of this river. The girl in the water was smiling at her with her blue lips and eyes and she was pushing her to the bed, river bed wedding bed ’til death do you part the seas and bring them back to me, crashing down in waves of cold, cold water in the arms of a river roaring in her ears through the rusalka’s soft and lonely night.

The only thing she could see in the green light were the animal eyes of the girl in the river, holding her down and saying that she wasn’t the right one at all, after all. She was so lonely. She would understand, wouldn’t she? She would understand now. She would, and the river swelled like a bursting heart and dragged her away with arms of iron and earth.

Description: Crimson has brown hair, gold eyes and a relatively calm attitude most of the time. Typical of her family, Crimson wears a red, hooded cloak, a blue dress and black shoes. Besides the normal “Riding Hood” appearance, she has two gold bracelets that look more like a set of shackles, which is exactly what they are. As if in spite of everything: her training, her situation, her life in general, she's only a teenager.

Weapons/Abilities: Crimson has a basket, filled with everything she would need for her travels: Food, several extra cloaks in black, green, blue, white and a sandy brown, poisons in liquid and vapor form, bandages, several daggers on her person and her weapon of choice: a blade that is a wolf’s head shaped sword handle attached to a hand saw.

More like a curse than an ability she also has The Grimm. The Grimm, best described as Wolves of Darkness by the viewer, plays on Crimson’s fears and turns every living thing into one of the wolves, but only in her eyes. Given enough time the Grimm will take a physical form that both controls and is controlled by Crimson herself. A two-way puppet if you will: she controls where it is and it controls what it does. At this point The Grimm is the dominant force of the two and only gets stronger the longer it is present. Anytime The Grimm is in physical or hallucinogenic form Crimson is driven by the powerful need to kill it lest she be killed herself, going into a rage from the pure need for self-preservation. However, when she is controlled by it, her need to kill is inhibited by her lack of being able to do so, which poses a problem for her and all around her.

In the presence of a physical Grimm the saw blade turns into a chainsaw. That’s right: A chainsaw. A chainsaw powered by Crimson’s fears. Thankfully, this happens rarely.

Backstory: The original tale of “Little Red Riding Hood” is actually the tale of the first to-be queen of the House of Hood. Toned down into a children’s tale, it was in reality the story of how the assassin Red Riding Hood broke into the Queen’s castle and killed her. She was then imprisoned by the guard (Eaten by the wolf) and saved by the Queen’s suitor who was known by all as The Woodsman. Needless to say, the story was made tamer to teach children their history without the gory details, and the truth was eventually forgotten by all but the House of Hood. The kingdom itself has a very low population, all the men and occasionally some of the women have been known to die sudden, violent deaths, leaving the kingdom one full of adolescent girls and their grandmothers. As such women often go abroad to find husbands and bring them back home, which prevents the kingdom from dying out. But that's local history.

Several hundred years later, the kingdom has an academy which trains orphaned girls to be spies for the kingdom. Each girl is stripped of her name and given a new one based on where they rank in the academy. The first name is a proficiency designated by color, with shades of red being the highest and white the lowest, the middle name is a military designation, Riding for cavalry, Running for footsoldier, etc. and their surname was their non-military area of expertise. Cloaks are information gatherers, Shades pieced such information together and sent it back out as rumors and misinformation, and so on. Hoods, like in the story, are assassins and only a select few are allowed to be Hoods. All girls who make it to Hood rank are considered for succession of the kingdom if there is no direct heir, which has never happened.

Crimson spent years at the academy, training since her mother's body was found disfigured outside the house with a cowering, blood covered Crimson inside. Even in her first years at the academy Crimson was always an advanced student, seeming to have a natural talent for everything they taught her. She advanced from a white cloak, the messenger rank, past brown and green to a blue cloak, the information gathering rank, in two years instead of the normal six required by passing the requirements for each exam accidentally during her white-cloak test. She was meant to get from one end of a woods to another without being stopped by the examiners. Not only did she do so, she went through the woods unseen and incapacitated all the examiners meant to stop her. (brown and green cloak tests, respectively). Her instructors felt that she could handle the responsibilities of a blue cloak, but advanced her straight to red when Crimson began not only gathering information, but writing reports from various sources and sending out misinformation, a black cloak responsibility, and killing high priority targets and their guards. She appeared to be everything the academy wanted from its girls: stealthy, lovely, lethal. The only students who advanced to a red cloak faster were the girls sent from the royal family.

Crimson Hood, aside from truly earning her rank of Red Hood, is her actual name, and she is, unknown to her, a bastard branch of the family that split several generations ago. Not knowing of her true origin, she is unaware that her training is part of her legacy to the throne. The other part is The Grimm. A curse brought on the family by those who would have prospered under the old queen’s reign, The Grimm is embodied in all the women of the family. The only way to stop The Grimm that the family has found is to literally kill their fears. The drawback is that The Grimm is in their minds and so changes how they see the world around them, particularly the people. Those in sight of the royal family when it manifests become wolves as if from nightmares, and those seen have a compulsion to kill the see-er, hence the low population. The House of Hood trains their children to kill, and kill well.

Crimson was about to embark on a journey to find a way to end or escape the curse when she disappeared. Everyone who knew her thought she had become one of the many nameless dead so known and feared in the kingdom.

Question: Crimson would cover her head and say “Why? Why won’t you leave me alone?”

Spoiler :

As always, If my colors are close to another's colors I would be glad to change them for you.

Weapons/Abilities: Mechivan was always a planner, Not a fighter.
He mostly used hidden weaponry, Retractable Daggers. Small hidden crossbows and a small short sword, However he has learned to use whatever is in the surroundings to eliminate his targets and is quick to learn his enemies ways. Since his death he only grew more potent. As a ghost he could stay hidden and manipulate objects.Striking him with Melee weaponry will not work really

However. He is not Dead or invulnerable, His Ghost is particularly weak against any magical or holy powers. Because he mainly relies on his will power to manage his goals he will also weaken greatly if you pull the will to fight out of him. Morale affecting weaponry is most useful. His weapons do not much actually damage but are designed to slowly bring the opponent down. A battle against Mechivan will be a battle of Endurance Willpower and A Keen eye to spot the daggers flying at you. He however will most likely go for a quick and clean kill if possible

Description: Mechivan looks like a slender decrepit person. His Skin has turned white and his eyes are hollow. His limbs are almost bony and thin in comparison with normal humans. His skin seems to dissolve into a smokey mist that encircles him. His style of Clothing doesn't really help his looks. His clothes are ragged and damaged. He wears a cloak and hood that conceals his face. He also wear rotted leather Pouches,Gauntlets and Boots. Under his ragged cloth he wears a rusty hauberk with rotted leather over it. On the pouches hang a assortment of scrolls and daggers. A small Quiver of crossbow bolts hangs on the side of his belt. On his Head he wears a Capeline His face is cold and emotionless. His gaze could unsettle the most dread and battle scarred warlord

Mechivan is a Cold and Calculating individual, Ignoring any taunts and banter thrown at him unless it reveals information. He is a straight to the point guy. He will be polite to his enemies but will not reveal his own mood. He can however act different to lure people out. He will mostly be concerned with what he is doing and will scold things like overconfidence and recklessness. He is not below dubious tactics and he could be considered heartless. But he is not ruthless or cruel. He grants his opponents a quick and short death if no other option is available. He however hates smug and unprepared behavior.

After his death, These traits have only improved.

Cruddy Picture of his ghost:

Spoiler :

Biography: He was always the man in the back. Standing behind any Ruling Family, Counsel or Governor of the Lands of Zerregossa. He was the man behind the man behind the man. Yet nobody suspected that the man in the back was one of the most feared weapons of Zerregossa.

This man's eyes could see things people he hidden away in the minds of others, His ears heard the Truth in thousands of rumors on the streets. Cunning and Elusive as a fox he did his job, Pulling threads and Scheming like a Spider in its web.

The Man's presence would instill a fear in people as if no secret was safe from him. However his exploits would never reach the ears of the public. The man was the spy master of the Zerregossain spy network.

But all things have to end, And so the Zerragossian Empire fell and The mna died, not from a conqeust or encroaching horde but to a horrendous plague

However the man had taken an oath. He would Zerragossia's Greatest Ally and Servant. Even in death. He could not leave the world of the living. He became the ghost. Grimly managing an empire of the dead. He haunted the ruined halls of the Zerragosian great hall. Felling any grave robber that would dare to enter the pestilent ruin.

And then nobody heard from the last eternal citizen of the Zerragosain empire again.

It saddens me that the fact of your untimely demise was an outright fabrication, I have my sources on the other 'side'. Fortunately The world already has considered you dead, Which means we have a lot of time to talk about this before you can meet my sources in person.

Description: Sara is a 23 year old woman from the old west, though the west was readily becoming the new west at the time. She has short dirty blonde hair, with a slight orange tint to it. She wears a leather vest, open down the middle, a large blue bandana around her neck that reaches down to the bottom of her ribcage. Underneath her vest is a white shirt, and she has a buckled belt keeping up her practical leather trousers. She has spurs on her boots and a holster around her hip. A strap covered in bullets wraps around her waist, connected to the holster. She dons a sharp cowboy hat that sticks down to eye level, and has a feather sticking out the side of it, neatly tucked in by a blue silk band.
Sara is constantly reflecting on her troubled past, so would take care before tackling risky situations. She likes to think positive, but is always expecting the worst to happen just in case. She has drank way her troubles for the last several years, and so has quite the taste for alcohol, but never gets so drunk to do anything she’d regret.
She can look out for herself, and has been paid on more than one occasion to protect other people or their cargo, and so takes to being a peacekeeper or, failing that, a law bringer.

Spoiler :

Weapons: Sara has her own 2nd Generation Colt Single Action Army revolver, a 45. six shooter, otherwise known as the Peacemaker. It’s a long barrel revolver that has to be cocked back before each shot can be fired. She keeps the holster for it by her left hip. The gun has been intricately engraved, and modified with an extended barrel.
She also has a Winchester Model 1894, loaded with .30-30 Winchester bullets. An expensive but reliable repeater rifle.

Abilities: Being dead has changed a few things about Sara. First of all, she has no internal organs. Her “body” is actually just a phantasm type shell that is corporeal; her real body was abandoned after she died. Acting as a shell, the inside is filled with the essence of whatever she has bound herself to. Binding is what she does to exist, for instance, the first object near her fresh corpse was a burnt log. It automatically bound herself to it, breaking the object itself down into simple matter, and creating a shell with it. She then had to bind herself to something else, to have reserve matter inside the shell in case she was damaged. If Sara is hurt, the shell will crack or break, leaving her to stop and allow the matter to reform and fix herself. If she were to run out of spare matter, she would need to find something else to break down, a lengthy process and definitely something she cannot do under fire, not for long anyway. The plus side of this is that she doesn’t really feel pain, but getting injured does leave her feeling very uncomfortable and stiffens her shell around that area, to stop cracks spreading further. She also cannot lose any items she died with, which are her clothes and guns. All the ammo she spends winds up being remade, same with her weapons. The downside to this is that anything she doesn’t die with cannot be brought between multiverses. She will be reset at the start of a battle, and once again at every new round.

Biography: Sara was born the third child of a ranching family. She had two elder brothers, Rick, the eldest, and Martin, the second eldest. Her father owned a small ranch of up to 30 cattle at a time, and was the beef producer of the nearby town. They weren’t rich, but they got by. However, ranching was a dangerous job. They were constantly under risk of being targeted by cattle rustlers. Her father and brothers had to carry guns, but she herself was not. Her father didn’t want her to become a violent woman and that she should take on the safer jobs at the ranch. She complied, not too unappreciatively. She wasn’t even a teenager at that point, and had yet to develop the urge to rebel against her father. Besides, she didn’t need a weapon, the thought of taking a mans life scared her. Her brothers always said that without the ranch they’d probably have ended up as law enforcers. They understood what they could and couldn’t do law wise, and her father was very proud of them. But tragedy struck when the family was in the neighbouring town. They were just picketing the horses when three black clad men, guns drawn, burst from the bank. They were carrying sacks of money and yelling, and spotting the Hargrave’s proceeded to point their weapons at them. They wanted the horses. Sara’s father whispered to let them do it, to not do anything stupid. They slowly handed over the reins of each horse, but Rick was taking too long. As their leader pointed a gun at his face, he reached for his weapon. Rick was a fast draw, and managed to fire a single shot from his hip. The bullet tore through the leader, and he shot Rick between the eyes. The other two men smacked both Martin and Sara’s father over the head with their weapons, and threw their leader over a horse. As they tried to make their escape, a Marshal arrived, Winchester in his hands. With his men in tow, they gunned down the mounted men, and dragged the leader off of the horse, throwing him to the ground. Sara and her mother were left crying over the body of Rick. Several days later, the murderer was hung for his crimes. But Sara had lost her eldest brother. She hated that she didn’t have the power to help him, not even to fight back as he had done. Against her fathers concerns, stating that she had to pick up his slack now, Sara learned how to use a gun. She took on the more masculine jobs Rick had done, constantly trying to prove herself.
The first time she ever had to use a gun was when cattle rustlers arrived, guns blazing over a hill, while she was getting the cattle to graze. Her father was injured in the fight as they wrangled several cattle, but Sara wasn’t letting them. She drew her pistol from horseback and shot, hitting one of them in the chest. They returned fire, injuring the horse she was riding and causing it to collapse, throwing her to the ground. She hurt her leg in the fall and couldn’t stand as the remaining men stole almost half of the cattle. She managed to get her father into town on his horse, and his life was luckily spared. But as they returned home, they were devastated to find their home and ranch in flames. The rustlers had stolen all they could and torched their home. Her mother and brother were killed in the blaze, and several weeks later, her father succumbed to infection and exhaustion. She was just seventeen. Left without anything but the clothes on her back, her fathers horse and her sidearm, Sara attended her family’s joined funeral. She would have inherited the land her father owned, but there was nothing left there. The money they owned in a bank account was used to pay for the funeral. Feeling distraught Sara had no way to live her life. However, the Marshal that had brought her brothers killer to justice offered her a job as a deputy. Sara had no alternative, and after proving herself capable, spent two years in law enforcement, to the jeers of the townsfolk. The Marshal wasn’t a sexist man and appreciated her hard work, but other people weren’t so understanding. Sara got into more than her fair share of fights because of her gender. She worked hard bringing justice to the county, but after a while she just had to leave. The town became too quiet, the only people being brought in were drunks and domestic disputes. Sara wasn’t able to earn much under the circumstances and left her badge behind. She managed to find a caravan to sign up with as a bodyguard. The pay wasn’t great, but it let her leave behind her troubled past and travel to new places. For a few years she was a vagabond, hiring herself and her gun out to other people. She also became quite the alcoholic to deal with the haunted nightmares she would receive. Of course, there were plenty of men around to hit on a drunken woman, but her fist usually sorted them out. She wasn’t at all interested in men or sex, her childish dreams of getting married had burned to ashes just as her home had done. She made friends with the law enforcement plenty of towns, sometimes taking on bounty hunter work. She preferred not to kill the criminals, although she didn’t mind shooting them to incapacitate them. She didn’t care if they died from their injuries, so long as she took them into justice alive she was happy. She earned herself a reputation as a gunslinger, eventually earning the nickname “Viper”. This was both to reference how fast she could draw, and the poison like attitude she had towards men. However, the Viper met her match on a Caravan job. It was supposed to be simple, a trade route that was usually safe, normal cargo that wouldn’t fetch much or feed many, and only one bodyguard, herself. Nothing was out of the ordinary, yet they were attacked all the same. There were at least ten bandits, each heavily armed. Even Sara couldn’t match them, even with both her Peacemaker and rifle, her luck ran out. She took seven bullets before she finally let her rifle drop, and collapsed by the fire they had set up to rest by. As they looted the wagon, she managed to shoot the neared man in the back with her sidearm. For that, she was shot in the head, and she died.

But that was not, however, the end. Several hours later, with the wagon long emptied, her employer murdered, and the fire long burnt out, Sara Hargrave returned to existence. She just began existing, a spirit looking down on her own corpse. She wondered if this was what death is, when she was slowly dragged onto the fire. A log moved, seemingly of its own accord; into the centre of her spiritual chest. It then began to turn into this multicoloured dust, flowing around the area her ghost inhabited, and began creating a shell that was an exact copy of her living form. After each log had gone through this process, she had a corporeal shell as a body. She was confused, afraid, and lying on a hot campfire. Her clothes began to burn, and yet when she removed herself from the rocks, her clothes began repairing themselves. She was dead, she could still see her bloodied corpse, and yet here she was, standing over it. Nothing made sense to her; everything she knew was being turned upside down. Death didn’t work like this she told herself, no religion or book told of this kind of thing. Perhaps this was just some sort of last nightmare she was having in death. Perhaps this was Damnation. With nothing to do, she closed the eyelids of her corpse, and buried it without a grave marker. With no horse, she had to walk back to town. In that time, she found that she could still hunger and get thirsty, but it wasn’t required for her to survive. Even after roughly six hours of walking, her skin hadn’t dried out, her feet didn’t hurt and she hadn’t needed to take a break. She did however feel the need to consume something, but it wasn’t a stomach telling her to. Sara managed to figure out that she could break down matter, and tried so on a cactus. It was a lot different that the burnt out log. Living matter gave out a lot better matter than dead matter.
When she reached town, she proceeded to buy a whole bottle of scotch at the bar and drink it. She could still taste, yet the liquor was simply broken down inside her. Her money also just got recreated back. So everything she was when she died got replaced, she thought. After staying the night, having a restless sleep, and walking out of the bar in the morning, she found a wanted poster. If in death she could still do justice, then that was what she chose to do. However, the man in the poster was familiar to her. What she remembered shocked her. The man in the poster was her brother’s murderer, long since hung publically. She had seen him die with her own two eyes. She grabbed the poster and asked the local Sheriff about it. He told her that he had been robbing banks in the area, as well as random wagons. He was a vicious murderer who deserved to die, he said, so feel free to bring him in dead if she wanted to. Deciding to see for herself just who this man was, she pulled a favour from the Sheriff and borrowed a shotgun. Her reputation was still good for something at least. She then bought a horse from a passerby on the street, handing him all the money she had on her. She rode off to where the poster had said the criminal’s hideout was, an old ranch by the bottom of some tall cliffs. The trail there had long since been lost to the land, but she rode over the plains and managed to locate it. Letting her horse go, she snuck up to the ranch. It was old, broken, and several lamps were burning inside. Steeling herself, she kicked open the front door and jammed the barrel of her shotgun into the face of the nearest person. He was drunk, ugly, and smelled terrible. She smacked him over the head before he could yell out, but his body let out a loud thump when it crashed to the ground. She was then in the middle of a fire fight inside the old decrepit. Feeling nothing towards them, she let loose a blade from her shotgun, killing the first of them. It wasn’t the leader, so she began going through the rest. A bullet tore through her right shoulder, leaving out through her back, leaving a hole the size of a cup’s rim through it. The drunken bandits were confused, so Sara killed them while they stared dumbfounded. She hid around a wall as her arm repaired itself.
Samson, the leader, fired several shots from one of his companion’s fallen weapon.
Sara waited for the weapon to click empty, then rounded the corner, shotgun ready to blast. She hesitated, his own weapon was pointing right at her. A Mexican standoff.
He taunted her, saying she can shoot all she wanted, he’d have fun killing her afterwards. But Sara didn’t question him about his confidence. She said she knew about his power, pulling a bluff. He gawped in awe and spat out an important question.
“You know about the fragment?”
That was all she needed to know. The facts finally connected in her mind. Although she was missing the beginning, she could now figure out the end. There must have been a small piece of something within the mass inside of her, something that if broken would sever her existence. She aimed for the centre of his chest and fired a slug. The shot blew off most of his chest, his arms were knocked away, and with his entire chest seizing up he couldn’t get a chance to shoot her. She strode up to him, butted him in the chin with her gun, and peered into his shell when he hit the floor. A small object, it looked like a couple of coins, was floating around in the rainbow-like dust. She pulled back on her gun, forcing a new slug into the chamber, and slowly brought the shotgun into contact with the coins. Samson began to beg for mercy just as Sara wondered about not being able to bring back a body to get her reward. She pulled the trigger, feeling the recoil shudder through her arm, as the coins were ripped into shrapnel from the buckshot. Samson’s body burst apart, seeming to dissolve into nothingness, leaving a quiet, bloody scene. Sara’s mind remained blank, and there was no weakness in the knees, no tiredness and no sense of running out of adrenaline. Everything that used to summarise a gunfight, all the horrible things that made you glad to still be alive were missing. There wasn’t even any pity for the criminals she just brought to justice. She dropped the shotgun on the floor, not intending to give it back anymore, as she strode out of the bullet-ridden building. Justice didn’t make her feel better anymore, the only solace she could take was in that crime would be lessoned with their parting. She wouldn’t be able to stop crime in the country, and if her existence was made public then there was no telling the kind of problems she would have. She leaned against a wall, wishing that she had taken up smoking when she had the chance, when her world suddenly wasn’t what her eyes were seeing.

question”Ever met a dead woman before?”

Man, this is gonna be so annoying to get rejected 4 times in a row. So much for season 3.

Originally posted on MSPA by bobthepen.
So many great entries! And I expect even more to come!

Now, of course, I can only select 8 total for the battle, but don't let that discourage you from submitting a character!

Even if you don't get selected, with your permission I'd like to integrate your character into the battle at some point! So don't worry about writing up a profile and then having it go to waste!

Also, I'm really far from making up my mind on the entrants, and I probably will be until the entry deadline on Thursday 11:59pm Central Time. There are a lot of factors that go into picking contestants, more than just writing aptitude: past experience, availability, current participation (new-comers to grand battles have a big advantage!), briberycontributing to the wiki, lots of things.

Taelia is still a young woman. She has all the physical hindrances that come with her age. She has, however, from a very young age, been trained in the arts of the warrior. Harsh training in the wilderness has resulted in her being more mature and adept in the art of combat then most girls her age. Her favoured weapon is the little replica Hand-and-a-half-sword that she was to have inherited when she came of age. It is little more than a large dagger, but she has used it for a good many years and is comfortable with it. She is also rather adept at improvising on the field of battle. Despite all this, however, she has led a (surprisingly) sheltered life. She has never seen real combat, nor ever killed anybody. The events of the following Grand Battle are likely to have a toll on her psyche.

Description:

Spoiler :

Spoiler :

Taelia is a lithe, elfin young woman. She is in her mid-to-early teens, but looks older due to her height and often serious demeanour. Indeed, she can seem to be a little obnoxious in normal situations. However, as she is still young, being suddenly yanked from her own world and thrust for the first time into the battles she has always been groomed for but is undoubtedly not quite ready for is likely to leave her vulnerable and uncertain. She is still more child then adult. However, there is a dark being residing within her... a demon of such profound evil that many lives were sacrificed to end his evil reign; of such unfathomable power that even then they could not quite finish him, and settled with merely containing him; of such unending determination that even these measures were not enough. He stretched out the tendrils of the influence he had built up over the millennia and settled on manipulating his target.

Spoiler :

The Omen on the other hand is a rather unique entity. Named a demon by the people who fought it, it nevertheless does not seem to use demonic energy. The title, in fact, arose from the sheer havoc it wrecked in the world in which Taelia originates. It murdered and pillaged; manipulated and deceived, gaining followers and even worshippers out of their fear for it, and then turning around and killing them mercilessly at a whim. Its reasons were never quite clear. It didn’t need sustenance. It didn’t take much pleasure in shiny things or amassing a wealth and it could simply take whatever it wanted. In reality, The Omen merely acted this way out of a perverted sense of amusement. Its power was unlike anything these people had ever seen, seemingly able to kill at a mere thought. It manifested itself physically in a strange visage of something not quite man. It delighted in the intricacies of subtleness, but once it grew bored with these “games” it would destroy things for amusement. It slowly ravaged its way across the lands leaving a lifeless land in its wake until finally, the last bastion of hope – a small kingdom of humanity united against this unstoppable foe – stood in its way. In The Omen’s unfailing arrogance, he sought to play a game with them, much like a cat plays with its prey...only for this to result in his downfall. Outsmarted by these humans, he was trapped inside an orb for countless ages as the world began to rebuild itself. Even now, trapped inside Taelia’s body, he cannot truly access the great power he once had, but despite this, its cunning mind will find ways to utilise this diminished power to his advantage. It remains an unknown, however – even to The Omen himself – what affect the consciousness of a living vessel will have upon his power.
[NOTE: I’ll probably be referring to The Omen as a He for the sake of easy writing.]

Biography:

Spoiler :

As the above section mentioned, Taelia had been bought up to be a warrior. This was for the very same purpose that the long and proud lineage of Omanguards dating back to the very first – Eluria Omanguard – had been trained. As the name suggests, their purpose was to guard The Omen’s prison, and ensure that the beast was never set free.

Taelia was the first female in a very long time to be born to this line – indeed, the only other one ever to be born was the first one, the great Eluria who had helped imprison The Omen in the first place. The Omen was too powerful an entity to truly kill. His original name is lost to the winds of time, but his remaining title – The Omen – refers to the fact that his very presence in an omen that blood is to be spilled. He once ruled over the earth, terrorising its people and making the world his plaything... until finally, a bastion of hope arose and toppled him from his seat of power, and imprisoned him deep underground in a mystic orb that even its creators could not truly fathom.

However, his spiritual presence, though limited, was too great to truly contain forever, and over the years, as his strength and cunning grew, he began to be able to send a tiny part of his conscience to forage out in the world. Eventually, the knowledge of the first woman born to that despised bloodline since the wretched wench Eluria herself came to him, and he hatched a plot that was one part desperation, but 6 parts meticulous planning.

Eluria herself had given her life to preserve the power of The Omen within the Orb, and it struck his fancy that his descendant should be the one to free him. Since her birth, he began to spin an intricate web to ensnare her, and – great as his cunning was – he eventually allowed her curiosity to find his prison. Old enough to be able to go about on her own, and yet still too young to understand the consequences: strong enough to make her way to him, but too weak to resist his infallible power, she drew deeper into his prison and finally came to the orb that legends had told her about. The once clear blue crystal of hope had now turned red and wretched with the blight of The Omen’s corruption, and it seemed to her young eyes that a storm brewed inside it.

Despite herself...despite the warnings, and despite the nagging doubt in the back of her mind... a feeling she called curiosity drove her ever closer...without even realising it, she lifted a hand drew her finger closer to the orb – hesitated a little...

...and touched it.

In a flash of light that was more a flash of darkness, she lost consciousness and knew no more: she woke up on this side of the Summons to Battle.

...and deep inside her, a terrible being cursed the fates. His plan to escape had been ruined at the last possible second! And now, instead of being trapped inside an orb, he was trapped inside this fragile shell of a human! Were she to die, he too would dissipate into effective nothingness! He would have to bide his time, hide deep within her and exert his influence only when it seemed that she was likely to die, as such fragile beings were wont to do. If he could find a way to break her spirit and body at the same time, he could truly be free to exert his utmost control over her body and mind, and shape her into a more fitting vessel but until then...

A metaphorical smile erupted on his metaphorical face. Until then, maybe he could have himself a little fun!

Question: Just waking up from her unconsciousness Taelia would look with bleary eyes at the strange new world she found herself in and ask, in the slightly absent-minded way of someone newly awoken “W...Where am I?”